Charades
by LaurieQ
Summary: Sequel to Coming of Age. Nothing could make Clipboard leave Ranei. Nothing. Except killing Frank Hardy. Nothing could make Joe go back to Ranei. Nothing. Except saving Chet...
1. Chapter 1

**INTRODUCTION**

 ** _Author's_** ** _Name:_** Laurie Q

 ** _Title of Story:_** Charades

 ** _Type of Story:_** Casefile/AU

 ** _Rating of Story:_** T

 ** _Characters in Story:_** F,J,Fe,L,Ch,Ca,V,B,OC's

 **Warnings:** mild language, angst, injury, innuendo.  
 _ **  
Date Originally Posted:**_ April, 2010 at HDA

 _ **Plot Blurb:**_ When you've already left something valuable behind to escape with your life, maybe you should just let it go. Unless it's one of your closest friends... but do you leave your brother to do it?

 ** _Sneak Peak:_** "Mr. Hardy, charming to meet you again! Your nose has healed nicely, has it not?" The army officer rapidly closed the gap to the stunned youth, open hand extended. "Do come in and quit skulking about, I have not had the opportunity to extend my condolences regarding your brother." (Note, I don't do death fic)

 _ **Special Notes:**_ First my profound thanks to Liz for working through the inception of this story with me and to Dawn for a wonderful job as beta. It makes all the difference in the world. Second, this story is a sequel to Coming of Age. While I have included some recaps, this won't be as enjoyable if you haven't read that one, and  Age certainly won't be any fun if you decide to read it after this one as the suspense will go right out the window. I hope you enjoy this.

 **PROLOGUE**

She ran her fingers through the sweat spiked hair of the man seated before her, leaning into his shoulder to whisper. "Don't you love me, darling?"

He flattened his back into the wooden rungs of the chair as far as his bound hands would permit, struggling to put enough distance between them to search her eyes. "Of course I love you, but-"

She circled behind him, intentionally avoiding his gaze. The deep brown eyes had been her undoing more than once over the years. Not this time. "Then if you love me, you'll help me." She punctuated this whisper with a teasing nip at the curve of his ear, smiling when he instinctively leaned closer.

He scrunched his eyes tight at the warm breaths caressing the back of his neck, weakening his resolve. "But..."

"Help me," the trail of kisses started at his nape and curled forward along his stubbled jaw, alternating with words more exhaled than spoken, "and I will make you very, very happy. Refuse me," her fingers trailed lower, tugging loose the hem of his shirt, "and die."

"Uhhh, I.. . uhh... No, this isn't right. I... I can't... Uhhh...Oooh, yeah, right there..." the last of his determination crumbled. "Fine... Let me go, and... I, uhhh... oooooh... I will help you. What else can I do?"

She stopped kissing him to return to the front of the chair, settling straddled across his lap with a chuckle. "Oh, I'll untie you, dear-heart, but I'm not letting you go. Daddy wouldn't like that. He wouldn't like that at all."

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"You lazy, worthless, ingrate scum! Get! Up!"

 _I wasn't down until you kicked me, stupid..._ "Yeah, ok." Bracing his hands on the damp soil, Chet got his knees beneath him, then levered back up onto his feet. He made an attempt to brush the dirt out of the ground mess of his palms, quickly giving it up as hopeless. His ribs heaved, taking advantage of the hard won breather.

"You waiting on an engraved invitation, kid? Get back to work."

Chet eyed the man before him, unsure of his name, and not especially interested. John, Bob, Mike... Rumplestiltskin... whatever. He was an American too, and Chet wasn't sure how he came to be here, at the end of the earth. Not the same way as the rest of the boys and men laboring in the tropical heat; that's for sure. The stranger stood in khaki shorts and a light weight white shirt, a wide brimmed hat shielding him from the sun. He had a few extra pounds padding out his middle, a condition that had long since deserted Chet. Oddly, the safari style clothes didn't suit him, something about his demeanor suggesting he's rather be at a desk in more corporate attire.

He had accompanied Clipboard or Rao the first few times Chet had spotted him, but now he generally came alone, taking charge from the native soldiers who ran the work camp. He'd appropriate one of the thin bamboo canes the majority of the militants carried, tapping it on the tip of his sandal as he stalked about. Overall, he wasn't as quick to swing the stick as the others when barking out orders, but he seemed to have developed an undeniable dislike for one Chet Morton. Chet had no idea why, and between the pole and gun holstered at the man's hip, he'd resolved not to ask.

"Before I got walloped, I _was_ working." Chet felt the words tumble out before he could squelch them, at least leaving the 'genius' on the end unspoken.

"Not fast enough, boy, and when I want your excuses, I'll be sure to ask for them. Get back at it." He emphasized the words with a sharp thump across Chet's thighs. Hard enough to bruise, but it wouldn't welt.

Chet didn't bother to cringe; it wasn't like it was the first time. He shrugged, knowing a 'yes sir' might have been a better choice, and consciously opting against it. Picking up another large stone block, he hefted it onto the wet mortar atop the chest high wall in front of him, grunting a bit at the weight. He was sun burnt, hungry, exhausted, and sore. Of course that pretty much described every day, or the good ones, at least. Oh well, only another six or seven hours of backbreaking daylight left.

Giving the block a hard shove into place with the heel of his hand, Chet wordlessly turned around for the next one, unconsciously stepping over the linked chain on his leg with the easy negligence of practice. He almost didn't feel it now. Almost.

Dusk finally descended, his fellow countryman having long ago departed after hurling a few less repeatable insults Chet's way. A shrill whistle brought everyone to a halt. Chet walked the fifteen feet away from the rising wall that the tether permitted, waiting until one of the soldiers approached him. He rolled his shoulders slightly, stretching the muscles of his back and hoping no one noticed. It probably wasn't on the banana republic approved list of acceptable things to do. A guard stooped and unlocked the chain, leaving the metal cuff clasped around his ankle. As usual Chet scouted the scene for opportunities, as only the dawn and dusk march to the building site were without a physical restraint to bar escape, but nothing presented itself. The heavily armed soldiers standing over them ensured that.

It was almost dark after the short walk back to the makeshift barracks. They were little more than elongated huts formed of woven bamboo, an open entrance side rising about eight feet while the latticed frond roof sloped down to four feet at the stubby rear wall. Chet knew exactly how they were constructed, having built them with the assistance of about a hundred other hapless souls. The one he currently called home housed a quarter of them, crammed in a tight, stifling space. He plunked down on the end of his moldy leaf stuffed pallet, ignoring the soldier who snapped a chain back onto his ankle cuff, connecting it to the heavy timber that ran the anterior length of the structure. He noted with some relief that the boy who'd died three nights ago had finally been removed, alleviating a bit of the stench. Home sweet home.

Chet picked up the two oversize tin cups that supposedly comprised the extent of his worldly possessions, holding them out as he did every morning and evening. The same browbeaten girl shuffled down the row as always, a wheelbarrow rolling ahead of her. She filled one of the cups with tepid water, the other with vaguely steaming slop. Chet couldn't identify it and didn't try, shoveling it into his mouth with his fingers. The first few days here the filth on his hands had meandered through his mind, but it hadn't recently. The cup still had crusted bits of this and that on it from weeks ago, rendering worrying about washing up before supper a non-priority.

Still hungry when the meager food ran out, Chet leaned back on his bed, wallowing to shift the bunched vegetation within the sewn canvas into something more comfortable. Willing himself not to succumb to sleep before the dormitory went completely quiet, he gazed up through the small gaps in the roof. Clouds drifted over the waning moon and he idly wondered if it would rain again. The harder downpours tended to keep him awake, but they did cut down on the mosquitoes and rats for the night.

Satisfied the men on either side of him were finally asleep, he slid today's find out of the waistband of the tattered blue shorts he wore. The small nail was about two inches in length and he couldn't say what he planned to do with it, but he slipped it to the slowly accumulating treasure trove concealed in his bedding .

Twice now he'd been hauled into the center of camp and pummeled without explanation. Well, three times, techinically, but he knew exactly what he'd done to earn the third trip. Photos had been snapped and he been forced to write a note the second time around. While it wasn't addressed to anyone, he had definite ideas what that was about, and he didn't like it. If his friends were free of this nightmare, he didn't want any part of being the bait to yank them back - which meant he had to find a way out of here.

He trailed his fingers over his favorite item, a jagged piece of bone. A little voice in the back of his mind registered its distinctly human appearance, but he made a conscious effort not to ponder its original owner, instead using a small collection of rough stones to work on fashioning it into a point. Sooner or later, he was bound to get a chance to use it. If he didn't starve to death first.

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to be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** While there is a lot of action in this story, some of it comfortable, some not, it is a revisit to Rao and Clipboard's world, after all, but the beginning is a bit more introspective. Both halves are there for a reason, shaping the characters into how I see them several years down the road. Bear with me.

 **CHAPTER 1**

"Not the trumpet lilies. They made him sneeze."

The diminutive gentleman sat on the edge of his desk, eyes lowered in sympathy for the bereft mother in front of him. "Mrs. Hardy, that's not a factor…"

A sharp look from the petite blonde he'd known for years stopped him. "I'm sorry, Laura. No lilies." He turned to another page in the over-sized book of photos. "Maybe something more like this, then?"

Laura gazed at the arrangement, a spring forest conglomeration of red bud branches, pussy willow, dogwood, ivy, and fern. Images of a dark haired boy romping through the woods slammed into her, effectively erasing the other man's presence. When she finally answered, the soft words seemed intended for the child in her memory. "He'd like that."

The funeral director waited, eventually clearing his throat to draw her back to the present. "This is the one, then. I'll take care of it. I think that was the last thing we had to select, unless you want to review the order of service again?" Seeing the minute shake of her bowed head, he stood and offered her his arm. "May I walk you out?"

"Yes, thank you." Laura exited the building with a suppressed shudder, wishing she'd taken Fenton up on his offer to drive her. Between choosing the hymns and the flowers, the afternoon had seeped a weary gloom into her that wouldn't lift. She doubted the casket and headstone selection had been any easier for her husband. Sinking deep into the driver's seat of her car, she sat immobile for a long time before returning to Bayport Memorial.

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"Joe? You awake?" The soft voice wove its way within the subdued lighting of the hospital room.

Joe groaned, rolling over and listlessly opening his eyes. "I'm awake."

Vanessa crossed the tile floor and sat beside the bed, gathering her boyfriend's hand into both of hers. She carefully avoided the protruding IV, brushing her thumb over faintly bruised skin. Unsure what to say, her voice eventually muted to a tentative tone quite unlike the laughter that generally lurked about her. "Oh baby, I am so sorry. I knew he was sick at the airport, but…" Her words trailed into a sniffle.

Joe stared at the watery grey eyes, floundering for anything to say and coming up dry. Needing to escape the scrutiny, he pulled her down to his shoulder, free hand anchoring in the ash blonde tresses.

She wormed loose too soon, again studying his face. "Are you ok?" She swiped her tear away, shaking her head. "That came out wrong. I know you're not ok, but Joe, if there is anything I can do… anything… at all…"

A sick roll of his stomach gripped the younger Hardy. "Ness, I… I can't talk about this right now."

She nodded, wishing there was something more to do to console him. "I'll go then; for a while, anyway. Is Dr. Bates going to let you out for the funeral?"

"Letting isn't involved. I'm going, either way." He fell back into silence, empty gaze staring out at the linear planes of the hospital parking deck.

Vanessa trailed a finger through the edges of his hair before planting a soft kiss on his cheek. "I'll be here when you're ready, Joe." She slipped out into the hall, wondering if that time would ever come. 

Fenton slid into the same chair two hours later, stroking his son's blonde waves to wake him. The action unfortunately resulted in a clamped vice grip that instantly numbed his wrist. "Easy, Joe. It's just me."

The hand fell away after a few bemused blinks, followed by half a smile. "Hey, Dad. Sorry."

"It's ok. Long day, huh?"

"Yeah. Mom left again a half hour ago and Vanessa and Biff have both been in. How much longer do I seriously have to stay here?" Joe shifted in the bed, never thrilled to be in the hospital under any circumstances.

Fenton shrugged, somehow conveying sympathy with the gesture. "I don't think Dr. Bates could justify keeping you much beyond the day after tomorrow anyway, so we're planning on having you discharged early that morning. That gives you tomorrow here to rest. The funeral's at eleven Monday and we'll pick you up on the way to the church."

Joe jammed his head backward into the pillow stuffing, allowing it to engulf part of the angry frustration roiling in him. "Well, unless you want to stop off for pancakes or something. I could always hail a cab and meet you there, if I'm allowed out of the wheelchair, that is."

"Joseph!" The name hissed forth from his father.

The sound of huffed breaths dissipated slowly. "I'm sorry! I just can't lie here and talk about Frank's funeral like I'm discussing last week's sports scores. I've started this eulogy fifteen times and so far all I've accomplished is confiscating the nurses' entire supply of ballpoint pens and crumpling enough paper to have the EPA swear out a warrant. The only way I could possibly use any more ink would be to open my own tattoo parlor!" The flare of anger fizzled into a defeated slump, followed by awkward silence. "I can't do this, Dad. I can't."

Fenton paced, back turned to his son and hands clasped while he schooled his features and let his own exasperation fade. His younger son had grown into a young man he was extraordinarily proud of – sometimes to the point that he mentally glossed over the hell the seventeen year old had been through in the last year. When he turned back around he was perfectly composed, an unnatural gravity in his voice. "You don't have to, Joe."

"Which part?" The words were understated now, almost meek.

The detective managed a wan smile for his child and reclaimed his seat. "Any of it - the hospital, the wheelchair, the eulogy. I still think this is the best plan, but it's up to you. I'm not going to insist.

"You and Mom wouldn't have any reason to come to the hospital if I suddenly get over my relapse." Joe raised an eyebrow, watching his father's face.

"No, we wouldn't." Fenton knew Joe was recommitting himself to the arrangement, and allowed him the time to do it.

"And splitting up later would be hard to explain."

"It would."

"So."

Fenton watched the acceptance settle. "So?"

"So... I've got a eulogy to write." Joe scowled at the chewed pen and yellow legal pad on the bed stand with an expression generally reserved for sworn enemies.

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 _Being dead sucks._ Frank stared aimlessly out the eighth story window, wishing he could go back to sleep. At least that passed the time. The sound of a piano drifted through the wall, announcing his father's arrival in the chapel next door.

The warning wasn't necessary; no unwanted staff members seemed to be in the seldom used hallway, but Fenton wouldn't take the chance. Other than the two nurses he had personally vetted for the job and Dr. Bates, no one knew the identity of the young man in the hospital room around the corner from the chapel. Fenton Hardy entering the small sanctuary was unlikely to raise suspicion or even curiosity; all of Bayport seemed to know the younger Hardy son was hospitalized three floors below, struggling to recover from an infection in time to attend the funeral of the elder one. Little wonder the devastated father felt the need for divine solace.

Ending the dark Shostakovich melody, Fenton lifted his fingers from the keys, mind wistfully hearing more of Frank and Joe's earliest musical efforts than the piece he'd just completed. Pausing for a brief prayer, the detective cracked the oak and stained glass door. Seeing no one, and confident ample time had elapsed for the handpicked staff to stop him if need be, he left the chapel and entered the door to his right.

"Frank?"

"H-hi."

"How are you holding up?" His oldest child was still far paler than Fenton liked, and the stuttered speech was a painful reminder of a mere month before. Halfway around the world, would-be revolutionaries had jailed Frank and beaten him nearly to death before sentencing him to hang. His subsequent rescue by his brother had been neither quick nor painless, and after a lengthy hospital stay abroad, the Hardy family had returned to Bayport only five days earlier.

Frank ignored the question, forming his words carefully in the hope of getting them out intact. "How's Joe?"

"He's fine, you know that. He hasn't actually needed to be in the hospital for a couple of weeks now."

Frank nodded, satisfied nothing new had occurred with his year younger sibling. He supposed he ought to feel honored. Good cover story or not, he couldn't see Joe staying in a hospital bed or reduced to wheelchair jockey for just anyone. "Ch-Chet?"

Fenton looked away, understanding the single word question all too well. His sons' friends, Chet Morton and Biff Hooper, had accompanied the Hardys on what was supposed to be a tropical vacation. Instead a temporary coup on the island nation of Ranei had separated the group and Chet hadn't made it back.

"Nothing new on that front, I'm afraid. I'm heading back to Indonesia the day after the funeral. I promised Elias Dahl I'd come back in return for his assistance in getting you and Joe out of the jungle anyway, but I'm hoping once I'm physically closer there'll be some sign of Chet." Fenton opted not to tell his son that he was now also unable to locate Elias, a Network agent he'd had numerous dealings with in the past. While the two men didn't like one another, Fenton doubted the agent would ignore him without a reason.

"Joe's g-going."

It wasn't a question. Fenton studied the deep brown eyes in front of him, not liking what he saw. He liked it even less when those eyes fluttered closed, resigned.

"Frank? Joe's only going because you told him to. I know how much it means to both of you to find Chet, but I can get other help for that. If you need your brother here, he'll stay."

Frank rolled that over in his mind. What exactly was he supposed to say? That every time he drifted off, he saw Rao smirking at him, the thin bamboo pole in his hands raised for another strike? That the confines of his hospital bed reminded him a little too much of a cell too tiny for him to even stand? Or maybe that the constant throbbing in his arm made him forget it wasn't chained to a stone ceiling, literally broken and ripped out of socket? The scenes from Ranei swirled in an ever increasing pressure inside him, and he knew he'd have to let some of them out to stay sane. Soon. He couldn't imagine attempting that conversation with anyone but Joe. Maybe he couldn't attempt it at all. _Sanity's overrated..._

 _Yeah, I can hear it now. Don't go Joe, I know Chet's probably dying, but I'm scared to fall asleep and my boo-boos hurt, so you'll have to stay here. Oh, and by the way, I keep having nightmares you'll get yourself killed if you go over there again, so now I'm afraid of that, too. I'll try to get you a comprehensive list so we can sort through all my new phobias one point at a time… You want that alphabetically or in order of magnitude?..._ The sarcasm failed even inside his own head. He needed his brother, perhaps more than he ever had. _Don't go back, Joe, please…_

The brown eyes snapped open again, permitting his father a fleeting glance of the turmoil before a studied calm descended. Frank had perfected that trick years ago, deftly hiding his emotions whenever he chose. "It's n-not that Joe shouldn't g-go. Just that I sh-should be there."

Fenton sighed, knowing there was more to this than his son's inability to work a case, and also knowing Frank wasn't willing to discuss it. While he doubted any of the overseas threats had followed them back to the United States, he and Joe would be leaving a very incapacitated Frank behind. With another arm surgery and weeks of physical therapy ahead, Fenton had arranged an out of state medical facility to care for Frank. While the plan was well hidden, he also wanted to be sure no one had reason to look for his son, hence the upcoming funeral. Unfortunately, the ruse was hitting the whole family harder than they'd expected. It had so nearly been the truth.

"I'll tell Joe to stay."

"No. He c-can't let Chet down. B-bad enough th-that I am."

Fenton let his hand rest on Frank's good shoulder, shaking his head slightly. "You are not letting your friend down, Frank, and neither is Joe, whether he accompanies me to Ranei or not. The picture of Chet they sent you in Indonesia tells us he's still alive. Joe and Biff have given me every piece of information they can possibly remember about the island, and it'll be enough to find him. If Clipboard and his cronies had planned on killing him, they would have done it already."

Frank flinched at the name his brother had bestowed on the former army colonel that led the revolutionaries on the tropical island. While the legitimate government had managed to regain power, the officer and a sizable number of followers had escaped. The chain of events both before and after the short lived coup was convoluted, but it boiled down to the militia leader thinking Fenton and Joe knew a whole lot more about the other officials involved in the plot than they really did. Clipboard seemed perfectly willing to kill both of them to ensure their silence on the matter and a captured Chet had become bait.

"W-won't have to." Frank's comment was barely audible, leaving his father uncertain if he was meant to have heard it.

"What?"

"They w-won't have to kill him if wh-where they're keeping him is anything like where they kept m-me." Frank took a deep breath, dropping the guarded expression for a moment. "I c-couldn't have survived that h-hole this long, Dad. He'll d-d-die."

It was Fenton's turn to close his eyes briefly, surmising what the prison must have been like for Frank to admit that. "I'll find him, I promise. Even if he's, ah – I'll find out what happened to Chet, either way."

"Th-thanks."

Somehow Fenton didn't think he meant for finding Chet. "For what?"

"F-for not t-trying to lie and p-promise this will be okay."

Maybe Joe really should stay here. Joe had repeatedly offered, confused when his brother had all but ordered him away. "Frank, there's still a chance for Chet, remember that. Are you sure you'll be alright here without Joe?"

"C-course, Dad. I'm f-fine." The blank stare out the window resumed, leaving a disconcerted Fenton to quietly vacate the room.  
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to be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N -** Many thanks to Cherylann, EvergreenDreamweaver, and Paulina Ann, who have already entered a review. Thanks for the send off for this story all and thanks to everyone reading along. Just twenty nine little chapters to go :)

 **CHAPTER 2**

 _Tickles..._

The soft bristles brushed across his nose, stopping with a final swish over his brow. Frank opened his eyes as he felt the wizened little man leaning over him retreat.

"I think that's about all I can do for you, young man. Must say, I've been doing this almost thirty years, making the dead look a little more alive for one last day. This is the first time anyone ever asked me to make a live boy look more dead."

Fenton edged his way between the two, realizing the situation was a bit unnerving for his older son. "Thank you, and I appreciate your discretion. As I said, the circumstances are somewhat unique."

The older man chuckled, folding his kit as he stood. "Oh, every favor I do for my nephew Arthur is unique, Mr. Hardy, one way or another. I'll just be on my way, don't you be worrying 'bout me none. And don't you be staying dead too long there, young Frank. It doesn't suit ya."

A weak smile crossed Frank's face, the makeup feeling taut on his skin. "I'll d-do my b-best to avoid it."

"Hah! See that you do, boy, see that you do." He left the small room in the back of the church, muttering about his bizarre relatives and their equally odd acquaintances as he left.

"Not much longer now. You doing okay?" Fenton was finding it hard to look into the burnished casket at his child. Perhaps the face painting job was a bit too good.

"Y-yeah." Frank shifted on his back slightly, the wool of his suit sliding over the satin lining of the coffin. He winced as the motion jarred his unsupported right arm. Still, he couldn't think of a viable excuse for what his corpse would need with a sling in the great hereafter, so it had been left behind at the hospital. "D-dad?"

His father heard the hesitation and suspected their morning conversation was about to be rehashed. "Yes?"

"I n-need to tell Callie."

"We've been over this. If half the county knows what we're up to, this won't work. As soon as we can get everything back to normal, we will, but right now I have to prioritize you staying safe over bruised feelings."

"S-she's not half the c-county. N-not that many people know."

A deep sigh escaped the senior detective. Frank was right. At the moment only their immediate family, his sister, four government agents, and a very limited medical staff were aware of the plan to smuggle Frank to relative safety while he recuperated. "She'll be alright."

Frank closed his eyes, the strength to argue leaching away. "Yeah, like J-Joe was after Iola." He let the statement hang, aware it was hurtful, but unable to summon much remorse about it. "May I at least s-see Joe?"

The question hit his father harder than the jab about Iola ever could have. The recent weeks had made him incredibly worried about both of his children. While the severity of Frank's injuries explained a lot of his uncharacteristic moodiness, Fenton hadn't recognized just how much his plan to protect them had driven a physical wedge between his sons. There hadn't been a plausible excuse to sneak Joe into his brother's hospital room, leaving Frank going it alone. His sons relied on each other in any crisis, and Fenton had unintentionally denied them that. The strained conversations of the last few days looked a lot different in that context.

"Of course you can, Frank. You never have to ask permission to see your brother. I'm sorry if I made you feel like you did." Fenton sat in the hardback chair beside the polished walnut casket, leaning his elbows on the cream fabric covered rim. "Joe and your mother will be here early and he can come back with you for a while. No one will think it's out of character if he needs a few minutes alone before the service starts."

"I k-know I can't do much right now, b-but Joe and I have been hurt before." Frank paused, longer sentences still managing to steal his breath. "P-playing dead is pretty drastic. You expecting more trouble th-than you've said?"

Whatever might still be physically wrong with Frank, his perception seemed perfectly intact. Not that Fenton was spectacularly happy about that right now. He had seldom asked for obedience without an explanation from his children, especially once they'd left the realm of rocking horses and Winnie the Pooh. Fearing to upset his firstborn's fragile progress by involving him in too much planning, he'd done precisely that this past week. He wasn't certain if Frank's acquiescence was familial obedience or resigned exhaustion.

"Getting too predictable in my old age, am I?" The attempt at levity didn't work well and Fenton resorted to a shrug. "Maybe. A few of the agents and embassy personnel involved in the search for you and Joe have gone missing and some Raneian government officials have turned up dead. Plus there's always the standard cast of past criminal crazies that might like to take advantage of any one of us being vulnerable. I need to be here keeping an eye on you and your mother and I need to search for Chet. This is the best compromise I could come up with."

"S-sorry."

"For what?"

"N-not holding up my end."

"You always hold up your end, Frank. None of this could possibly be construed as your fault; if anything, it's mine. I should have recognized the situation on Ranei was potentially dangerous before I ever took you over there. You stay focused on getting back on your feet and everything else will work itself out. Besides, Joe would rather have you for a partner than me any day, so you've got to get back in gear." Fenton thought he ought to add something else, but it wouldn't come to him. "Got your part for today down?"

Frank snorted softly. "Being d-dead isn't that h-hard."

"I guess not." A hint of a rueful smile snuck through. "Just don't fidget. There's plenty of ventilation hidden in this thing and the only time it will be open is right at the end of the service. Joe's going to open it to say goodbye. That shouldn't take more than a minute, so you won't have to hold up to too much close observation, but it will cement the image that it's you in everyone's head. Other than that it's closed casket; you should be able to pull this off fine. This coffin gets interchanged with the fake one en route to the cemetery and once the graveside service is finished the hearse driver will take you to the airport. Laura will meet you there as soon as she can and you'll travel together. Got it?"

"Got it. I h-have the simple part."

"Dad?" Joe's voice drifted in from the doorway, reluctant and eager to see Frank all at once.

Fenton nodded at him, acknowledging his presence, but continued to stare at Frank. "I think that's my cue. I'll see you as soon as Joe and I get home. Get well, and don't worry. " He stalled another second, wishing the macabre scene before his eyes wasn't going to stick with him. "I love you, son."

"Love you too, D-Dad."

Joe waited until his father shut the door before closing the gap to Frank, silently watching.

"Joe? You l-look a little shell sh-shocked. You ok?"

"Me? I'm fine, but-" Joe paused, eyes sweeping the small room.

"B-but?"

"You're pale as death and laying in a coffin, Frank. It's freaking me out a little, ok?" Joe let out a loud breath and flopped into the vacated chair.

"Practicing for H-hallow-ween." Frank grinned, but the returning smile from his brother was wan at best.

"We're only six weeks past Easter." Joe hesitated, then plowed ahead. "Why don't you want me here?"

"Wh-wh-what?" The sputter this time around had nothing to do with recent injuries.

Joe's eyes dropped to the point of his tie, fingers repetitively rolling and unrolling the silver-blue fabric there. His mouth opened and closed in a few false starts, unsure where to begin. "It took me so long to find you on the island, Frank. I lost Chet and nearly starved Biff trying to get to you, and all the while you were being... being..." Joe stopped and choked down the vision of finding his brother below the prison gallows, broken in the dirt. "They nearly killed you while I was out on a hell-spawned nature hike and then I still couldn't get you to a hospital. Watching Reza slice your arm... I'm so sorry, Frank. I don't blame you, but if you'll just let me stay, then maybe-"

"S-stop. You don't blame me? For wh-what? You think I'm a-a-angry, don't you? I'm not, Joe. Y-you could have left me there. Probably sh-should have for your sake, but y-you didn't." He paused, riding out a series of rapid pants until he had air again. "How do you think I survived the l-last month?"

Frank waited, letting the quiet drag out until his brother finally met his eyes. Exactly how he'd survived, heck on the worst days the only reason he'd even wanted to, shone there, more eloquently etched than any explanation he could have offered. "Th-thank you."

Joe's smile was a little sheepish this time. "You're welcome. I thought we were ok on the plane, but these last few days... I guess my imagination got the best of me when you told me to leave."

"To g-go, not to leave. It's d-different. It's n-not that I want you going b-back there, Joe, but I th-think you need to." Frank kept his escalating nightmares about his sibling getting hurt, or worse, on the return trip to himself. Unlike his brother, he tended to doubt the veracity of gut reactions. Not Joe's so much, but certainly his own.

"For Chet?" Joe released his hold on the abused neckwear, clammy palms now swiping along his knees.

Frank nodded, but incongruently said no. "N-no, for you. Y-you're not going to be okay with all this unless you've tried everything to g-get Chet back."

"I'm not going to be okay with all this unless I _do_ get Chet back." Joe stood, but skipped the desired pacing in deference to his sore foot. At least the wheelchair had been left at the hospital in favor of a cane.

"H-heard you got eulogy d-duty." Frank suspected this might be a touchy topic. Public speaking definitely didn't make Joe's favorite pass times list.

"Yeah, I did, and I've gotta have a word with whoever stuck me with the short straw. It's all rigged, I tell you, but someone's gotta make a speech or we'll be marooned in this zombie remake forever. And if I'm getting stuck in a B grade movie, it's going to be a beach bunny flick."

"Y-you wish." Frank accepted the abrupt change in mood, recognizing Joe needed it. "S-so, are you going to embarrass m-me with silly stories? T-tell everybody I'm afraid of Ferris wh-wheels?"

"Oh, the Ferris wheel bit didn't even make the first page, bro. I'm dredging up the good stuff." Producing the trademark little brother smirk took more effort than usual, but Joe managed.

"D-don't know what Dad was th-thinking giving you a captive au-dience." Frank stopped for a few shallow gasps. "T-try to limit the wisecracks. It's a s-ss-solemn occasion, not improv night."

"Hey! I can do solemn. Somber even. As always, I'll be the epitome of decorum."

"Epitome of d-decorum? Ness making you r-read those SAT voc-c-abulary books again?"

Joe plastered on his best indignant look. "I'm eloquent naturally, I'll have you know. I thought I'd tell everybody about the time you accidently locked yourself in the bathroom and then couldn't get the shower to turn off and Mom had to break in to stop the flood; or maybe the time you told Dad you secretly wanted to be a hermit just so you wouldn't have to admit you were lost all day in the woods at the Morton's farm. You know, the time you wore those sneakers with the squished honey-bun hidden in them all day instead of telling Callie she burnt them past human consumption was pretty good, too. I can still hear you licking your fingers and telling her how delicious it was. You really should have seen your face when she decided you could just eat mine as well since you liked it so much. It must have taken you twenty minutes to gag that thing down."

"L-long as you don't mention me ch-chopping up Mom's m-mail order flower bulbs last winter we're okay."

"You did that!? Frank, she's convinced I lost them on the way home from the post office and won't confess. Why'd you slice them up anyway?"

"Th-they were in the fridge. L-looked like water chestnuts."

"Don't tell me we ate them." Joe gave an exaggerated huff at Frank's nod. "Great. I'll probably grow orchids out my ears now."

"L-least you'll look better." Frank laughed. "T-try to resist a few of my b-bigger blunders, okay?"

"What, and pass up my chance to reveal all my big brother's finest moments to the whole town? No way. Ooh, I know. The Bangles poster. Now there's a story that needs to be told while you can't interrupt me!"

Frank frowned slightly. "What's wr-wrong with a poster of a b-band?"

Joe expression turned vaguely malicious. "It's an out of date girly band, you looked like an idiot doing that Egyptian thing around your room, and you didn't take it down 'til the summer you were fourteen. I think you were in love."

"T-twelve, and th-that's not how I remember it. I n-never **ever** did that d-dance."

"You keep telling yourself that, dude. I could've sold tickets."

The pipe organ on the other side of the wall began to play, a soft hint that everyone was waiting. The banter faded instantly, each struck with a nagging unease that this really was a goodbye; neither willing to voice it. It still felt too real. "Guess we better do this, huh?"

Frank nodded and motioned for Joe to shut the casket lid, leaving the vast majority of the what he wanted to say unspoken. Joe heard it anyway. "Yeah. B-be careful in Ranei, will you?"

"Me? Aren't I always?"

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to be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N -** this is one of my favorite scenes from anything I've written, maybe because Joe wasn't the only one that wrote 30 drafts of it. It was the scene in my head before I started this story a very long time ago. Thank you to for reading and especially for the kind reviews.

 **CHAPTER 3**

Joe leaned against the podium at the front of the sanctuary, vaguely perplexed as to how he arrived there. The sea blue shirt plastered against his spine, telltale nervousness trickling beneath the well tailored grey suit. An odd little tapping interrupted the thoughts rampaging in his head until he realized it was his own toe, drumming against the wooden floor. Pausing to quell the unwanted movement, he accidentally looked up from the flower-strewn casket before him. The congregation of the church returned his gaze, generating an almost overwhelming urge to flee. It had been so much easier to pretend the crowd wasn't there. But they were, and Frank was sealed in that infernal box, and he was really going to have to do this. _Here goes..._

He opened his mouth, but the first word stuck. Joe wiped his palms on his thighs, hoping the podium hid the motion, before clearing his throat and starting again. "When Dad asked me if I wanted to offer the eulogy, I couldn't imagine doing it. And then I couldn't imagine someone else doing this for my brother. There's never been anything Frank wouldn't do for me... no matter how difficult."

Joe fiddled with the collar of his shirt before resting his forearms against the dark wood and staring out into the church again. The pause lengthened, uncomfortable for everyone in the room, before he began fumbling in his jacket pocket. Eventually he emerged with a few wrinkled pieces of paper.

"Sorry." He unfolded the lined yellow sheets, wincing a little at the smudges obscuring some of the words. The faint rattle of the paper betrayed a tremor as he smoothed them out over the wood, vision skimming the scratched out words and nearly incomprehensible arrows. Maybe one of the thirty previous drafts would have been better. "I'm sorry. I was hoping I wouldn't need to read this, but, ah, anyway .. Sorry." _Don't screw up... Don't screw up..._

"I made a list of things I remember most about Frank. Things he's done over the years, special events in our family, the big milestones in his life and the funny little things growing up that made me laugh. Frank made me laugh a lot. The trouble with this list is that no one's milestones should end at eighteen, and I'm not ready to give up my brother, no matter where we are today."

"There are a couple other problems with this paper, too. I wanted to say something profound... inspirational maybe." Joe found himself slightly chewing on his lower lip as he sought out familiar faces in the crowd, bolstering himself to finish the remarks so he could sit down; escape. Somehow his brain kept rejecting that it was all an act. It wasn't really. Frank may not have been dead, but it was still an attempt to explain what his brother meant to him to a church full of people - and that wasn't something Joe was willing to bluff his way through.

"Frank deserves that, words people will quote years down the road, the perfect summary of my brother. But that would have taken a far better writer than I'll ever be, and looking at these notes, I never came close. Frank's the wordsmith anyway. He probably could have pulled this off for me in some sort of ode that didn't leave a dry eye... Doubt anyone really wants to hear me attempt that."

Joe shifted, somehow knocking his notes to the floor. He closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath. _Great Hardy, now you're a klutz as well as being halfway mute. My job to protect Frank this time... Don't... screw... up..._

He opened his eyes just as the funeral director sat a glass of water in front of him, carefully replacing the paper as well.

"You're doing fine, son."

The words were too soft to be heard by anyone else, but Joe appreciated the quiet reassurance. He gave a slight nod and trailed his eyes down the page, struggling to locate the next section. _I don't want to do this. I don't ever,_ _ **ever**_ _want to do this... promise me, Frank, that I won't ever have to do this for real... Just read... stop thinking and read..._

"I've already admitted I can't begin to sum up everything Frank has been to me, our family, his friends, or even this town in a few sentences. And if I spout some long sad rant about the unfairness of what's happened to him, or the waste of potential, then I'm ignoring what he endured just to get back home and worse overlooking everything he's accomplished, a lifetime's worth already. I won't do that; I'm too proud of him - the things he's achieved and the person he is - was." Joe spluttered over the mistaken tenses, hoping no one else caught the error. _Don't screw up..._

"Anyway, I'm not certain there's much I can tell all of you about Frank that you don't already know. He's had a very public life. The mystery cases, the academic awards, the sports trophies. All photographed and neatly filed in the newspaper. The funny thing is that Frank's an intensely private person. You could read every word of that and not know my brother at all."

"It's not that there isn't anything beyond the person all of Bayport knew to say about my brother, it's that I don't see how his death gives me the privilege of betraying the confidences he's shared with me the last seventeen years. And privilege is definitely the right word." Joe stopped for another sip of water, cotton seemingly building in the back of his throat.

"I may be able to talk about how I feel about Frank, though. Maybe there isn't that much difference. Someone asked me once if it annoyed me that everyone always thought of us as a pair. The Hardys. Fenton's sons. Until then I hadn't realized that I think of us that way, too. You don't schedule your day and then wonder if it includes your right arm, it's simply obvious that it does. I never considered planning a life that didn't include Frank to that same extent. The idea of doing that now is unbearable."

"Lots of people have a sibling; a simple genetic accident of being born in the same household. They may coincidentally be male. I have a brother. It isn't the same thing. I searched for hours last night for a word to use besides brother - I've got about six different attempts crossed out on here. I wanted something to convey the difference to the vast majority of people who will never share that relationship with anyone, but it's is all I could come up with. All the forms ran around in my head - brotherhood, blood brother - but I kept coming back to the simple version. And I finally realized that's more than good enough. The depth of that one word encompasses everything if you truly have a brother and is unfathomable if you don't."

"I've been fortunate enough to have an unshakable friend, a trustworthy partner, an eager teammate, sometimes even a co-conspirator. Absolute, unwavering support, whether I was celebrating some achievement or bull-headedly determined to do something unspeakably stupid. Brotherhood when I deserved it, and more importantly when I didn't. Someone who understood me more than I do, to serve as anchor so I could go be the little brother, the first one to joke, be a little reckless, to dive headlong into trouble, confident he'd always haul me out. There's a freedom in that, something Frank gave to me before I even knew to ask. Most people spend a lifetime hoping someone will fulfill even a few of those roles, and I was lucky enough to have all of that handed to me the first time he peered over the edge of my crib."

"I realized as I was writing this yesterday that I never really said thank you for all of that." Joe looked up from wavering cursive lines and sought the water glass again, quickly steadying it when his hand set it teetering. "Not sure if you can hear it now, but if you can - thanks Frank. I mean it."

"Those of you that were expecting the next Hardy you heard making a speech to be Frank at his graduation address are probably thinking he would have done a better job. He would have. I wish to God that's what had happened."

Another gulp of water was loud enough to be picked up by the microphone as Joe shuffled to the last page of the painstakingly chosen words, eager to escape the sanctuary that seemed to be progressively closing in. _Almost done... almost... don't screw up..._

"Frank offered everything he had to anyone in his life, and what he had to offer is astounding. He used all of that to support everyone else, keep things from crumbling. Especially for me, maybe, but certainly not only for me. Far more than I bothered to do it for him. I've been blessed to have him as a brother and I'd have been someone completely different without him. Someone I'm not sure I'd like. Frank's influence made the better part of what I am, whether I outlive him by a day or fifty years. A couple of feet of dirt and a wooden box isn't going to alter that. Ever... ...I think you're supposed to end these things with goodbye. ...I can't..."

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Joe jumped a little when Vanessa poked him in the ribs. He hadn't heard the final hymn of the service, or noticed that he was again seated in the front pew, much less seen his father stand. Fenton kissed Laura on the forehead before walking the half dozen paces back to the central aisle of the sanctuary. Biff, Tony, Phil and Mr. Morton fell in behind him, all of them stopping a few feet shy of the casket, a silent agreement to allow Joe to arrive there first. No one doubted Chester Morton, Sr. was standing in for his son. Chet would have fulfilled this duty for his friend without reservation.

Even aware his brother was alive if not well, serving as pallbearer clenched a fist around Joe's heart that wasn't likely to loosen soon. He propped his cane against the coffin and placed both hands on the domed wood, surprising everyone except his father when he shifted the flower spray lower in order to open it.

The planned scene served its purpose, the congregation all drawn to take a last look at a very dead Frank Hardy.

Joe pulled something else from the pocket of his suit, staring at the metal object before flipping the engraved cover open. It was an antique compass, although it hadn't been in his possession all that long. Frank had given it to him a month to the day after Iola died. Joe had been lost, sullen and sorrowful one minute, angry and dangerous the next, well on his way to becoming someone his brother and parents couldn't recognize - and perhaps someone no one would want to. Except for Frank.

 _"Iola loved you, Joe. The person you truly are, not the one you're forcing yourself to be. She wouldn't want you to do this, to give up on yourself. The risks, the wild friends, the racing around on that bike - I'm scared for you, little brother. You have to go back to being Joe, not whoever this is."_

 _"Being Joe hurts too much. I can't."_

 _"Not by yourself, maybe, but I'm not going anywhere."_

 _"I keep thinking one more fast curve, one more fight, and that'll be it. Iola wanted to live and I want to die, but God won't take me, Frank. Why doesn't He want me?"_

 _"Oh, no, Joe. Don't say that. He knows I need you here."_

 _"I'm not sure I can even find my way back to here anymore." Joe had dropped his forehead to rest on the knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around, hoping to simply disappear._

 _Frank's reply was quiet and desperately simple. "Then I'll find you."_

The compass had appeared on Joe's dresser the following morning, an inscription engraved into the aged pewter. "I'll always find you."

When Joe finally allowed his vision to veer into the coffin, Frank's pallor stunned him. For an awful moment, he thought the casket had sealed somehow, that his brother had slowly suffocated while he sat three yards away in the pew. He pressed the compass into the pale bluish hand, unaware he was holding his breath until he felt the faint squeeze in return.

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to be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: So busy work week and now back to posting. Thank you so much to Cherylann, Evergreen Dreamweaver, Paulina Ann, and Barb for the kind reviews and thanks to everyone reading along.

 **CHAPTER 4**

Ham and cheese.

Tuna noodle.

Beef and mushroom.

Spinach and egg.

Joe stretched and peered back into the freezer, then at the dishes stacked up his arm. Short of a unprecedented reversal of the laws of physics, all this crud wasn't going to fit in there. Not without a shoe horn and a collegiate engineering team, anyway. Why did everyone on earth think a casserole was a miracle cure for grief? Somewhere between the four stages and Dr. Phil, the secret to acceptance had become breadcrumb topping and shredded cheese. Soft murmured voices from the family room filtered in, reminding him that if nothing else the need to rearrange tupperware provided him a temporary refuge.

"Joe, can you come in here a minute please?" Laura Hardy's tired voice came through the louvered kitchen door.

"Coming." Joe parked a container of raspberry rhubarb pie on the tan granite counter, conceding defeat. Aunt Gertrude could figure it out; he simply didn't possess the right chromosome configuration to overload a freezer. He made his way back into the family room, the tap of his cane fading as he crossed the threshold from the hardwood kitchen onto a pale celery carpet that could almost pass for white. He half expected to find Frank in the over sized chair by the fire place, but it was his mother ensconced in his sibling's favorite seat.

His father perched against the chair arm, a hand on Laura's shoulder, while a few neighbors remained on the sofa and hearth. The room reflected his mother's tastes, all pale greens and creams with a smattering of impressionist floral pillows. Gilded frames of a design that bordered on austere held simple garden watercolors against the soft sage of the walls. Laura had joked once that if she couldn't live in her flower garden full time, she was going to at least get close. The carefully chosen items were doing little to provide her comfort at the moment, however. "Do you need help bringing your suitcase down, Joe?"

Somehow her tone set off alarm bells in his head. It certainly sounded like a simple question, but perhaps not. "No, I can get it."

He'd hobbled half way up the curved stairs when he heard them.

"Laura, I wish you'd stay in Bayport while we're gone. At least all of our friends could be with you." Fenton strove to sound like the voice of reason. "I don't want you to be alone right now."

"No. And I won't be alone, I'm going to Amy's. We've been through this already. If you didn't want me to be by myself, you wouldn't be leaving." Sounding reasonable apparently wasn't high on his mother's agenda.

"You know I have to go." A long pause followed, interrupted only by a rather obvious declaration from Mrs. Shaw that she and Callie could probably be of some use in the kitchen. His father's voice was softer when he spoke again. "I don't want to argue about this. Not now."

"Then when, Fenton?" Tears put a tremble in the question. "Frank's gone, and now you're taking Joe back there... I can't stay in this house. Not without either one of them. "

Joe dumped his bag at the bottom of the steps and froze there, feeling as much an intruder to the rare disagreement between his parents as the other occupants of the room.

Fenton shifted to sit on the stone of the hearth, giving himself a better view of his wife. "It's ok, Laura." He settled a hand on her knee before continuing. "Shh, it's going be ok. If you need to go to your sister's house, then that's what you should do, but we're going to be ok." He reached out to stroke her hair, surprised when she pulled away from him.

"It's not okay, and don't you try to tell me it is! I buried one of my babies this morning and you're taking the other one right back to that hellhole. I'm sorry about Chet, I truly am, but didn't you learn anything on this little misadventure!? My son is dead, Fenton Hardy. How in the name of God is that ok?"

"Frank was my son, too, Laura." The detective clenched his jaw, hard, then strode across the room to Joe. "My things are already in the car. You can put your luggage in there, or you can put it in your mother's car and go with her. It's entirely up to you." He stormed out through the kitchen without looking back, the slam of the back door completing the conversation. 

Their friends quickly formulated one excuse or another to depart, offering hasty condolences to Laura and Joe and hesitant glances toward the backyard.

Joe shook hands with Mr. Hooper and exchanged a few hushed words with Biff, finally able to close and bolt the front door. He leaned his back against it, eyes closed with the exhaustion of the day. Somehow it was only four PM. Reluctantly standing upright, he called out to his parents. "It worked; everybody's gone."

Fenton wandered back into the house, nearly colliding with Laura in the kitchen entry. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek while glancing at his watch. "You've got just enough time to make the airport and hop the flight out with Frank, hon."

Surprised by the glint in his wife's eyes, he stopped, reaching for one of her hands and more than a little relieved when she finally allowed it. The staged argument had been their back up plan to ensure the crowd thinned out on time, but there was something in her face. Maybe the sentiments weren't as contrived as he thought. "Laura? We ok?"

She stared at their linked fingers a long moment, placing her free palm on the side of his face. She swept a brief kiss over his cheek before answering, an unexpected resolve beneath her words. "Yes, Fenton, I love you and we're fine." She turned intense blue eyes to bore into his, "but you make damn sure you bring Joe home."

Having walked his mother out, Joe returned to the sun dappled living room, wondering what to say. Perhaps nothing was the safest approach. "Dad? How soon do we need to leave?"

Fenton checked his watch again, willing to ignore the elephant in the room if Joe was. "Depends. Do you still want to stop at the Morton's on the way out of town?"

Joe shrugged his shoulders. "Not sure if want is the word I'd use, but I feel like we should."

"Then we need to be out of here in less than an hour." Fenton saw his son hang the cane on the stair railing and watched for any sign of a limp without it.

The observation wasn't lost on Joe. "I'm fine, Dad, really. I'm going to grab a shower before we go, the one at the hospital left something to be desired."

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Twenty minutes later a damp Joe Hardy was shuffling through the mess of his room in navy boxer briefs, pondering whether to dress for the sixty degree late spring day in Bayport or the likely swelter waiting for him on touchdown in Indonesia. He eventually selected a light blue t shirt that would look fine on its own later and a pull over grey sweater for now. He had both wadded in his hand and was toeing through a pile of laundry for any presentable jeans when a faint creak sounded - from Frank's room.

Joe dropped the forgotten shirts on his desk, about to call out to his dad when a skittering sensation up his spine stopped him. Somehow he knew it wasn't the elder Hardy in his brother's room. Grateful he hadn't completely latched his bedroom door, Joe crept across the hall, barefoot and soundless on the cherry flooring. A quick glance out the oval window at the top of the staircase confirmed his father was still in the driveway, rearranging baggage in the trunk of his beige sedan.

Knowing the door from the connecting bathroom into Frank's bedroom inevitably squeaked, Joe opted to enter from the hallway. He rolled each step from the outside of his foot inward, a silent stealth originally learned as a small child. Most of the detective games Fenton had taught his sons came out as a tossup, but not this one. Joe always won. Frank had taken to accusing him of being part ghost. Not that Joe wanted to devote much time to picturing either of them as a ghost today. Not after this morning. The sight of his brother dead in a coffin wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

He flattened his back against the plaster of the wall, holding his breath to listen. There it was again, a creak. Someone was definitely within, violating his brother's room when Frank couldn't defend it. Joe considered fetching his father before doing anything else, but he wasn't willing to forfeit surprise. If this had anything to do with Ranei, they needed to know, which meant capturing the perpetrator, not frightening them away. Maybe he'd be lucky and it would simply be a thief with really lousy timing.

He slowly rotated the doorknob, flinching slightly at the faintest of clicks. Had that been heard? Taking a more offensive stance, he counted off five seconds in his head. Nothing moved. Unconsciously flexing the muscle in his arm, he curled his hand into a fist and simultaneously burst into the room.

The intruder was smaller in stature than he would have ever suspected, and apparently had been forewarned by the knob. Darting beneath the raised fist in a flash, slim arms wrapped around Joe's bare chest, squeezing him tight.

Joe came within a hair's breadth of spinning to slam the small body hard against the oak doorframe when his brain finally registered the sobbing mass clinging to him. He worked his jaw a few times before he managed to speak, and then it was in a warbled treble octave his voice hadn't achieved since the summer he was thirteen.

"Callie?!"

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to be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks for the quick review on the last chapter, you guys are wonderful! Probably 2 more chapters up on this one today (no promises, lol, I have kids!) and another on Diamond Joe tonight. And Evergreen, glad you enjoyed "Laura's" living room, I'm sitting in it right now. Worried about the pale furnishings and dirt at first, then found that with no TV, no computer except what I carry in, no USB ports, etc., it remains a fairly kid free and therefore mess free zone!

 **CHAPTER 5**

"Callie?!"

"Uh, Cal?" The squeak in Joe's voice was less noticeable this time. Joe took a futile glance around Frank's bedroom, noting that not a single item was out of place. Had he been in his own room, a dozen articles of clothing would have been in easy reach. In here, not a darn thing met his searching fingertips.

"J-Joe?" From the timbre of her voice, she'd been crying quite a while. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be up here, but... I needed... I... " She lifted her head away from his chest, taking a swipe at her puffy eyes. "I needed to be close to Frank."

"Hey, it's ok. Really. Shhh, Cal, we're going to get through this, I promise." Joe shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, trying to figure out the etiquette for comforting your not-actually-dead brother's girlfriend in his bedroom - in your underwear. _You'd think Miss Manners would have covered this one._ "Shh, you're gonna be ok."

"That's just it, Joe, I'm not. I can't do this. I don't _want_ to do this." The tears were back full force. "It's not fair. It's not. How did you?... when Iola?... God, Joe I'm sorry... You shouldn't be the one comforting me."

Joe dropped his cheek to the top of her head, absently stroking her hair, not really aware of his own murmurs. "Shhh, Callie. It's ok. It's gonna be ok. Shhh. Somehow, it has to be ok. Shh." Eventually the wracking sobs became interspersed with gasps, both finally tapering off.

"Sorry... I'm sorry. I can't seem to stop crying." Callie took a couple of deep breaths, doing her best to calm down.

"You don't have to be sorry." Joe once again found himself searching for words. "This is hard." _In more ways than you know..._

"I should go." Callie took a half step backward, only to have Joe catch her when she swayed and stumbled.

"Whoa. You ok?"

A sniffle escaped her. "Thought we already covered that. No. Are you?"

"Not really." He tipped her chin enough to meet her eyes. "Cal, you know I'm going with Dad, right?"

"Yeah."

"Promise me something? Be okay until I get back?"

The intensity of blue eyes startled her. "How could that possibly matter now? Nothing does..."

"Shh, don't say that. How you are matters to me... to Frank..." _I'm not doing this right._ "Just be ok until we're home." _...All of us._

"Not so sure how to do that. I'm not sure how you _are_ doing it." Callie rubbed at her splotched face.

"Who says I am?" Joe shook his head. "Honestly? Because I don't have a choice. Because if Frank were here he wouldn't give me a choice. He didn't last time."

"It's just I... I loved him... I don't even think I'm still sane. I'd swear I heard your mother say she was going to meet Frank."

 _Why did Frank have to be the one that doesn't give anything away_? Joe stiffened in her arms, trying to deflect the question in her voice with a shrug.

"Joe? I did imagine that, didn't I?" Callie pulled in a stuttered breath and took a good look at his guilty expression. "Joe?"

"Callie, look-" Joe wasn't quite sure where to start.

"Look? Then I did hear her say something? But... What did she mean?"

"I didn't actually hear Mom, but she must have said _**see**_ Frank... maybe she's going back out to the cemetery..."

"No, she said _**meet**_. I'm sure... unless I really am losing it."

Joe nibbled on his thumbnail and tried again. "She's upset, too, Callie. Hard to say what she meant."

She watched him worry at his thumb another minute. "You know, Ness says you only do that when you're lying. Talk to me, Hardy."

Joe pushed her out to arms length, clearing a tear away from her eyelashes with the pad of his thumb. "Ok, fine, I'll tell you. But do you mind if I get some pants first?"

"What!?" Callie let her gaze trail over more than his face for the first time. "OH!"

Joe took the opportunity to slip back into his own room. _Frank's not going to be the only dead Hardy brother once he finds out about this...yeah, bro, see I was just hanging out nearly naked with your girlfriend in your bedroom... this is one conversation we are never having..._

He re-entered a few minutes later, blue jeans and shirt firmly in place and a pair of mugs in his hands. Callie had curled herself up on the bed, back wedged into the corner and Frank's pillow hugged tight to her chest.

Joe held out one of the coffees before settling on the foot of the comforter, cross-legged. "I'm not quite sure where to start."

Callie took a sip from the steaming cup, grimacing at the bitter taste. She liked sugar in her coffee. A lot of sugar. Frank would have known that. "Not a good time for that old 'let's start at the very beginning, a very fine place to start' joke, I'm guessing."

"Do re mi?" Joe managed half a smile. "Oh, I don't know. If there's anything today could use, it'd be a little humor. When you went to see Frank in the hospital the morning after we got back, did he tell you anything about what happened?"

"Does it matter now?" Part of her wanted to know, the other half dreaded supplying her brain with actual images of Frank in that horrible place. She'd been glued to the television the weeks the Hardys were gone, watching news reports of the violent coup with growing apprehension. When the group of Americans deported from the islands returned without them, that apprehension had turned to outright fear. Vanessa hadn't been any better.

Joe nodded. "Yeah, I think it does. What did he say?"

"Not a lot. He said he got separated from the rest of you because he was older and things got a little rough before you and Biff could bail him out." Callie raised her eyebrows, silently asking for more information.

"And I thought Frank hated Cliff Notes."

"What?"

"Nothing. Anyway, that's definitely the condensed version. They nearly killed him then, Cal. Once we did find him, it was days before we could get him any help. I kept watching him get worse, wondering how long he could hold out."

Callie nodded, knowing her boyfriend's brother well enough to realize he'd clam up altogether if she rushed him. Joe had a tendency to sneak up on whatever he really wanted to say.

"Not all of the people involved in the coup were caught and for some crazy reason they think we can identify them. They came after us once in the hospital in Jakarta... even got off a few shots at Dad before he rushed us to the airport."

"Then you going back there after Chet isn't very safe, is it? I thought it was more of a search." Callie latched onto the potential shift in conversation, unable to tolerate the mental pictures of Frank's last weeks.

"It is a search. It's just going to have to be a careful one." Joe put a hand on her shoulder. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't share that with Vanessa."

"For now." Callie shifted, lowering the squashed pillow to her lap. "What did happen to Chet?"

The vehement shake of his head surprised her. "One impossible conversation at a time, ok?"

"Ok. None of this explains what you're hiding, Joe, or what your mom meant. You said you'd tell me." She kept her raw voice low, suddenly aware of the sheer effort Joe was exerting to talk at all right now.

"Dad and I have to go... and we're not convinced these people are going to stay on their side of the ocean. They could come here..."

"What?" Callie's eyes widened in alarm, a small hand clamping around Joe's forearm. "Is that what your mom meant by meeting Frank? Is she afraid these goons are going to kill her!? But you wouldn't leave then, your dad wouldn't, I mean I heard them downstairs but there's no way they're that angry with each other, even with Frank g-gone."

The increasingly rapid tempo of her speech died out as she stumbled over Frank's name, new tears threatening to fall.

"Callie! Callie stop." Joe waited until he heard her breathing slow down. "Mom doesn't think she's going to die, but Dad is trying to protect her - and Frank."

Callie looked as if she'd been punched. "Frank?" Joe saw her form the word, but no sound emerged. "But... but..."

He caught her other hand and squeezed it tight. "Frank's not dead, Callie. He's still pretty sick, though, and Dad wants him hidden."

"But the church this morning... I saw him, Joe. I saw him in that casket... and you! How could you stand up there and do that? Lie to everybody?" She shook her head in denial. "No. He wouldn't do this to me. He wouldn't." She was shaking again, afraid to hope.

"He didn't want to." Joe took a deep breath of his own, wondering if they'd handled this wrong from the start. "I'm sorry, Cal. Frank never wanted to put you through this, but he has to be safe while we're gone."

"He's really ok?"

"Not yet, but I think he will be. He still needs another surgery and a lot of rehab time, but if anyone can do it... What I said about Frank this morning.. it wasn't a lie."

"I need to go to him." She stood, smoothing her skirt as if she meant to leave that second.

"You can't. Dad has planned this to the last detail. Anyone from here following Frank out of town jeopardizes his life. Nobody else can know." Joe waited for her to say something, but she didn't. "You mad, Cal?"

"He's alive. You're one hundred percent sure?"

"Yes."

"Then maybe I'm mad. And relieved. And deliriously happy. Can you be all of that at once?"

"Me personally? Nope, but then I'm a guy. I think girls can." The smile was more enigmatic than pleased. "Seriously, Cal, be angry at Dad and I all you want, but don't be mad at Frank. He tried so hard to change Dad's mind about telling you."

She stared at the earnest expression and let out a soft weepy chuckle. "Joseph Hardy, I don't whether to kiss you or hit you with something."

"Compromise on a handshake?"

"No, but I'll settle for a hug." Callie pulled him in before the front door opened below and then a bellow interrupted them. 

"JOE? What on earth are you doing up there? As much as I enjoy standing in the middle of the driveway, we need to get a move on." Fenton waited at the bottom of the steps, hesitant to intrude once he realized Joe was in Frank's room rather than his own.

"Coming." Joe gave Callie an apologetic glance before leading the way down the stairs.

Fenton sighed as the pair descended. "Miss Shaw. I wasn't aware you were still here."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hardy. I didn't hear everyone else leave, I guess. When Joe came upstairs, I was in Frank's room. I didn't mean to cause a problem."

"I see."

Joe stepped slightly in front of Callie, unaware that he had done so. "Dad, she-"

"Can speak for herself." His father cut his explanation short. "Why don't you wait in the car, Joe?"

"But-"

"Joe, I'll be right out." Fenton didn't appear angry, but he didn't look exactly flexible either.

"It's ok." Callie made a slight shooing motion at the younger Hardy.

Fenton hid a smile. Secretly, he was proud of his son's willingness to protect his friends, even if it was from his dad. Hearing Joe close the door, he turned back to the petite girl before him. Her face was blotched red, but the eyes were completely different from earlier in the day.

"He told you."

"He... I was upstairs... Joe..." Callie gave up under the steady gaze. "Yes."

"Callie, I know this had to hurt you and I'm sorry for that, but my first priority is to protect my son. The funeral this morning was the best way to ensure Frank's safety."

"That's pretty much what Joe said."

Fenton nodded, expecting as much. "I trust he told you to keep this to yourself?"

"Of course."

"Do me a favor?" The older detective let his face and voice soften. "Develop a better poker face?"

"I can do that." Callie wiped at her eyelashes, aggravated at the recurrent wetness there. "For Frank, I can do that."

Fenton surprised her with a quick hug of his own. "Seems like my son has pretty good taste. Come on, Joe and I'll take you home."

Fifteen minutes later, Fenton and Joe were alone in the car, driving to the Morton's farm.

"I thought we agreed not to tell any of your friends."

Joe squirmed in the front seat. "Callie's more than that to Frank."

"I know she is." Fenton gazed out the windshield awhile. "I'm just worried about your brother. We can't afford for anything to go wrong."

"She won't tell anybody, Dad."

"You did."

Joe sucked in a breath that was probably audible ten blocks away. "I-"

"Joe, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. At least not the way it sounded. You did tell someone, but so did I. I could have kept this secret from you - from your mother - but I couldn't stand the thought of what that would do to you. Everyone has a point where it seems that you have no choice but to tell. Now, we have to hope that no one finds that point for Callie."

Joe nodded, grim with the idea that he might have compromised Callie's safety in addition to Frank's. "Tell me something, though. If Callie had cornered you crying like that, could you have stayed quiet?"

Fenton ruefully shook his head. "Probably not."

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to be continued...


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 6**

"Fenton, come in." Chester Morton, Sr. held open the white screen door of the farmhouse that had been the family home for four generations. Joe followed his father into the house, passing the family room to settle at the kitchen's worn pine table.

Fenton wordlessly accepted the proffered coffee, handing a second cup to his son and nudging the cream pitcher that direction. The elder detective hadn't missed his friend's awkward posture and decided to let Chester ease his way into conversation at his own pace.

Stirring his coffee far more than was necessary, the senior Morton eventually shoved the spoon aside and wrapped both hands around his mug. "It's been almost six weeks now. I... I don't really want to ask this, don't particularly feel like I have any right with Frank being... " He scratched a hand through his hair. "Heck, Fenton, I'm not good at beating around the bush to make something sound better. You buried your boy this morning. Am I going to be burying mine? You're not going over there just because you feel obligated when it's useless, right? 'Cause I don't see the sense in that."

Fenton made a point of looking the farmer in the eye. "No, I'm not. I can't honestly tell you if we'll bring Chet back, but I wouldn't risk Joe, or allow him to risk himself, if I didn't think there was any hope. The greatest chance of Chet getting himself killed was when the soldiers first found him. We have proof he got through that."

"Biff was here again yesterday. He told me about the picture from the plane. Do you still have it, Joe?"

Joe slouched further into his chair, a loud sigh escaping. "Yes, I have it."

"Can I see it?"

"Mr. Morton, I'm not so sure you want to do that." Joe intently studied the edge of his thumb, picking at a hangnail that didn't exist.

Fenton shook his head as well. "Chester, I've seen enough photos of my boys like that to last a lifetime. Looking at it won't help - you or Chet."

"Maybe not, but I need to see it."

Fenton grimaced and nodded slightly at Joe, wordlessly sending him to the car. He returned a minute later with a manila envelope and slid it across the table.

Chet's father paled at the photograph, his finger unconsciously tracing over the myriad of bruises decorating his child. He stood and turned his back on his guests, bracing trembling hands against the kitchen counter and staring out the window. The stocky farmer wasn't an overly sensitive individual, most commonly described as jovial or a salt of the earth type by his neighbors. At the moment, though, the tremors in his frame were an equal division of fear and fury.

"Chester-" Fenton 's comment was abruptly brought to a halt by a raised hand from the man before him, the tension in the wide shoulders evident. When Mr. Morton did manage to sit back down at the table, only thinned lips betrayed the storm within.

"Biff told me what happened in the jungle, Joe, what Chet did. He said the three of you got away from the revolutionaries and set out to look for Frank, and that Chet was sick, coughing a lot. I knew he was still sick, should have never let him leave Bayport, but he pleaded to go. He didn't want left out of whatever grand adventure the rest of you were going to have. Biff told me you were hiding and Chet thought they'd hear him cough; that the soldiers might kill all of you, so he ran out. My son got himself caught on purpose to save your hide."

The words were softly spoken, but they may as well have been snarled through a bullhorn to Joe. He closed his eyes to shut out the sudden mirage of a dripping jungle, but he still flinched at the gunshot reverberating in his head. "Yes sir."

Fenton forcibly clamped his teeth shut. Joe needed to get through this conversation on his own, needed to come to terms to with what happened.

"I'm proud of my son. I can even understand the decision he made, respect it. I just need to be certain you understand exactly what he did for you."

"I do, I promise. I don't know why I let him go; I should have stopped him. You said Biff told you what happened. Did he tell you it was my fault?" Joe was back to looking at his friend's father, but had parked his stare in the middle of his flannel shirt rather than risk a peak at his face.

"No, Joe, he didn't. Why don't you tell me that part?" Chester Morton raised an eyebrow at the younger of his companions.

"It was my decision to leave the hotel and go after Frank. We could have all simply come home, but I wouldn't. And once we were in the forest, Chet told me what he was planning to do. Biff tried to talk him out of it, but I-" Joe dropped his gaze to his lap again, "I thought it made a degree of sense. I'm sorry."

"Did it?"

"What?"

Chester repeated his question. "Did it make sense?"

"Yes." The long considered answer was nearly whispered. "I'm sorry, and I'd change what happened in a heartbeat, but yes."

Chester hardened his expression to the point that Fenton nearly intervened, but in the end the senior Morton surprised him. "You're right."

"Pardon?"

"I said you're right. You didn't drag Chet into the jungle, and you didn't shove him out of your hiding place, either. Both were Chet's decisions to make, and I won't have you minimizing his choices by making this all about what you should have done."

"Sorry, sir. I didn't mean it that way."

The loud breath from Chester sounded like the man deflated. "I know you didn't. Joe, what do you know about me besides I run this farm?"

The question seemed odd. The Mortons were about as what-you-see-is-what-you-get as any people he'd ever met. "You went to Ohio State and majored in agriculture of some sort, you're a deacon at First Methodist, you play softball, you served in the army, you-"

"Go back to that last one."

"The army?"

"Yeah. I served two combat tours, Joe. One of the things I learned is it's lot harder to let someone step in front of a bullet for you than the other way around, peculiar as that sounds. I think maybe this is the first time you've been on this end of the situation. You can't go around thinking it's your fault."

"You're not mad at me?" Joe sounded somewhere between incredulous and hopeful.

"Oh, I'm mad at you, Joe, and I'm mad at Chet, and darn near furious at the entire Eastern hemisphere, but that's not going to help a blasted thing. You get your head around what happened to your brother and what is happening to Chet , and you do it now. Otherwise you're not going to be able to keep it together to find my son. And you owe him that."

Fenton stood, squaring his shoulders. "Joe's well aware of the situation, Chester, and he has enough guilt on his own. I won't have you manipulating my son in the disguise of telling him it's not his fault."

"Dad, it's ok."

"No, Joe, it's not."

Mr. Morton was also on his feet, leaning forward onto balled fists and not budging an inch from either Hardy. "I'm not trying to manipulate Joe into anything. Come on Fenton, you can't tell me in your line of work that no one's ever taken a fall for you? Whether you wanted them too or not, whether you could have stopped it or not, in the end it doesn't matter. You know as well as I do it eats at you. Forever. I want Chet back, no matter what it takes, and I'm not making any excuses for that, but Joe needs him back for his own peace of mind."

"I strongly suggest you let me worry about Joe's peace of mind."

"Is that what you were doing when you took four teenagers into a war zone!?"

"Dad had no way of predicting-" Joe managed to shove a shoulder into the space between them, sensing this discussion was about to become more than verbal.

"Oh, bravo!" The sound of clapping emanating from the dim stairwell screeched the rapid fire barbs to a halt. Clara Morton emerged into the dimming daylight of the kitchen, wrapping a terry robe over rumpled paisley pajamas.

Fenton tugged his jacket down and ran his fingers through his hair, giving himself time to regain his composure. "Clara, sorry if we disturbed you. Laura said you weren't able to come to the funeral."

Mr. Morton lowered his voice as well. "Clara hasn't been feeling very well..."

"Stop it, Chester. I don't see any reason to make polite social excuses for the likes of them. There's not a thing wrong with me; I wasn't at that funeral because I didn't want to be." Mrs. Morton tucked a wayward strand of curly hair behind her ear, but it did little to calm her unusually disheveled appearance.

"Clara, I'm sorry about Chet. Joe and I are on our way to the airport now, and if there's any possible way to bring him home, we're going to find it."

"You should have never shown your face back here without him in the first place." The bitter words may have been in response to Fenton, but she looked straight at Joe.

"I thought we decided to let me talk to them, Clair. This isn't going to help." Chester took a step toward his distraught wife, gently steering her back up the stairs.

"Umm hmm, we did, because you said you could see both sides of it. That no matter how angry you were about what happened, you had too much affection for Joe, had spent too much time watching him grow up to let me yell at him. How dare you use the word affection when Chet is gone!? And I heard how well you managed to rein in your temper anyway. Now if this little testosterone festival is over, will somebody go get my son!?"

"Clara, please. I may have sounded harsher than I meant to, but this really isn't Joe's fault, or Fenton's. Everybody's on edge right now."

She swatted her husband's hand away from her waist. "I let you talk me into that exact argument once before, Chester, and now it's cost me another child."

"Joe, come on. I think it might be better if we leave." Fenton placed his hand on Joe's shoulder, stepping toward the door and propelling his son in front of him.

Joe nodded, but turned back to Mrs. Morton. "Give me a minute, Dad, ok?"

Fenton's expression made it clear what he thought of leaving Joe alone with the Mortons right now. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Probably not, but that rarely stops me. Please?

His father hesitated, then shrugged. "Fine. I'll be in the car."

Joe crammed both hands into his pockets and looked at the pair of them, one regretful, one livid. "Mr. Morton, I appreciate you saying this isn't my fault, but I think we all know that it is. I'm not going after Chet for my peace of mind or for any reason other than I do owe it to Chet. I'm going to do my absolute best to get him back to you, I swear."

"Lot of good that did your brother, Joe."

Joe swallowed hard and let her comment wash over him. It was true enough. "Yes ma'am. I am so sorry..."

"You're sorry? Is that supposed to make me feel better, because it doesn't. I've got a whole room full of 'I'm sorry' upstairs already, Joe. A room full of plum lace curtains and horse sketches and an untouched prom dress and a whole cart load of sorry, but what it's not full of is my daughter. So I'm sorry from you doesn't cover it." She panted in just enough air to resume the hysterical tirade.

"I let you back in our lives after Iola for Chet. For Chet! How ironic is that? He was so alone and he didn't want to lose his best friend on top of his sister. He convinced me you and Frank were a package deal. So I smiled, and made cookies and played Suzy Q. Homemaker while I let the boy who stole my daughter's life back into my home. And now you've done it to your own brother and my probably my son, too. How _dare_ you come here after killing both my children? How dare you do that, Joseph Hardy!? GET OUTOF MY HOUSE!"

The petite redhead barely reached his shoulder, but he made no move to block her hand. The crack of the slap on his cheek barely registered.

"Y-yes ma'am... I'm sorry... I'm sorry... God, Iola, I'm so sorry..." Joe's voice trailed off as he stumbled backward out the door, lurching at half run across the grass. 

#####

Fenton saw him stumble from the clapboard house and waited as long as he could stand it, hesitant to intrude when his son had clearly chosen solitude. Finally his need to seek his child outweighed that and he abandoned the car, ignoring the Mortons standing on their porch. Clara was still hurling accusations at an absent Joe, her words muffled as she struggled in her husband's tight embrace. A small fist pounded against Chester's shoulder, unheeded.

Joe was precisely where Fenton expected him to be, under the weeping willow that Iola had loved so much. The gnarled tree had been the scene of numerous picnics, shared secrets, his son's first kiss. The sway of the branches and their tiny spring leaves did little to shelter Joe from view.

Joe's forehead rested on his knees, one hand curled around him and the other tracing the initials in the base of the knotty bark. _J.H. + I. M_. It seemed like so long ago that he'd carved those letters while Iola giggled over his shoulder, lightly kissing the back of his neck. Now she was dead, Frank beaten to within an inch of the same, and Chet was who knows where. The only common factor Joe could fathom was that he was there every time. Clara Morton was right; it was all his fault. For all the football trophies, hours in the gym, and strategy lessons, when it came to being strong enough to protect the people that mattered, he'd failed.

"I'm sorry... "

Fenton doubted his son realized he was murmuring the words over and over to himself. A stark red handprint was clearly visible on his face even in the twilight.

"Joe?" Fenton sat down on the grass beside him

"I'm sorry..."

"Joe? You ok?"

"Chet... Iola... I'm so sorry..."

"Joe? Are you listening? Whatever they said, you have to believe this isn't your doing, son. Not Chet, not Iola, and certainly not Frank." Fenton spotted the single wet track dividing the scarlet slap and wished he knew what to say. This side of Joe seldom made an appearance, and when it did it was only to Frank. "Joe?"

Joe jumped a good six inches when his father's arm draped over his shoulder. "Dad? Sorry, I didn't see you."

"Yeah, I sort of noticed that." Fenton dropped his hand back on the lawn. "I didn't mean to startle you. Want to talk about it?"

Joe weighed the offer, desperately wanting to talk, needing someone to knit him back together. But Frank wasn't here.

He shook his head, unfolding his frame from the ground and walking to the waiting sedan. "Nothing to talk about. We're gonna miss our flight."

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to be continued...


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 7**

Shhhhhhhhhssssss...

Shhhhhhsssss- ssssss-

 _Not the right angle, hmmm..._

Shhhoo- _Hmmm, tip the bottle rim a little left..._ Whoooooooo

 _Yes! Knew if I blew across it long enough I'd get a whistle... B flat, I think..._

Whhhoooot... WHHHHOOOOOOOOT!

Fenton jerked the mostly empty soda bottle from the stream of air leaving his son's pursed lips and slammed it onto the coffee table.

"What?" Joe blinked his eyes, feigning the innocence of an angel.

A loud sigh escaped his father. "We're ten thousand miles from home heading for a politically unstable country and _this_ is what you chose to spend your time thinking about?"

 _No, this is how I keep myself from thinking._ Joe flicked at the edge of the papers scattered on the table before them, then leaned back into the reception room sofa, his knee starting to bounce up and down as soon as his weight shifted off of it. He pulled his eyebrows down into a laughable attempt at offended indignation. "Papers say anything they didn't say the first six times I read them?"

"No, of course not, but-"

"Mr. Dahl's assistant show up yet?" Joe knew good and well the expected agent was over an hour late.

"No."

"Well, there you have it."

"Have what?" Fenton's mutter was half-hearted, realizing his younger child was suppressing a natural urge to fidget with the room's meager available entertainment. There was a reason he'd stopped taking Joe on stakeouts a few years ago, affectionately opting to inflict him on Frank instead. He thumbed through the sheaf again, hoping something new would catch his eye if he refocused his attention.

whoOTT... WHHOOTT... WHHHOOOOOTTT!

"Still, should have broken that bottle while I had the chance." The words were even softer this time.

"You say something, Dad?"

"No, nothing."

Joe shrugged, holding the bottle aloft and peering at the remaining dark liquid. "Wonder if you can predict the pitch by how much water is left in there? Seems like it would work, it does with that finger around the wine glass rim thing, but a full bottle won't whistle, so I guess you need a certain amount of empty air space. Actual water might be slightly different from cola, I guess; the carbonation would change it, maybe? Should be able to get the octave on the note if I blow a little harder..."

"Uh, Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm kind of trying to work this through; if maybe you could schedule the physics thesis for later?"

"Oh, sure Dad, no problem." Joe stopped talking and watched his father return to his notes. "That the list you made in the hospital last time?"

"Um-hmm." Fenton absently rotated the list of names on the table so that Joe could read it.

#####

 **Frank Hardy** – last seen departing Ranei Ocean Resort with rebel forces for interior military prison, reported deceased

 **Joe Hardy** – last seen escaping Ranei Ocean Resort, reported threats against him by Nicolas Shuman, not carried out

 **Chet Morton** – last seen leaving Ranei Ocean Resort with Joe

 **Biff Hooper** – last seen leaving Ranei Ocean Resort with Joe

 **Connor Moore** – requested Hardy family presence on Ranei under guise of building contract fraud, former NYC policeman, son-in-law of Kiran Mejki, Assistant Secretary of State for Ranei, aware of coup before it occurred, deceased, final words spoken to me 'he knew, he already knew,' killer unknown

' **Clipboard'** – given name unknown, rebel militia leader, behavior suggests prior experience as regular army officer, last seen in capitol city of Ranei, ordered and conducted part of my interrogation, transported me away from hotel in rebel retreat, stated he murdered Frank

 **Rao** – rebel militia member, personal henchman to Clipboard, last seen Ranei Ocean Resort, reported by Clipboard to be at interior rebel camp after that, conducted part of my interrogation at the hotel, hit Laura

 **Cil** – rebel militia member, part of Clipboard's personal circle, last seen Ranei Ocean Resort

 **Shorty** – given name unknown, rebel militia member, part of Clipboard's personal circle, last seen Ranei Ocean Resort

 **Elias Dahl** – Network agent, presented himself to Laura as US government agent without providing details, refused to allow Laura outside contact after her arrival in Jakarta, worked two prior cases with myself, unknown if aware of his assistant's activities

 **Nicolas Shuman** – assistant to Elias Dahl, American but affiliated with Ranei rebel faction, failed plan to possibly kidnap Laura from embassy, threatened Joe, last seen 5 days ago in US Indonesian embassy

 **Corporal Mike Keeler** – US Army personnel, embassy guard staff, filed complaint against Laura for slapping him at her request, arrested Laura, last seen escorting her back to embassy detention yesterday

 **Kerstin Egolf** – private duty nurse assigned to me, suspected Network agent

#####

Joe read through the names again. "Well, Frank, Biff, and I are accounted for now at least. This list is still too long to really get a handle on, though, especially if you factor in the villagers we met."

Fenton shook his head and crossed out the R Joe was starting to mark on the page. "You ran into Reza, Topan, and the others by chance and she's dead anyway. No sense in overcomplicating the matter."

Joe tapped the glass bottle against the edge of his teeth, weighing the merit of that and deciding his father was right. "These last two, Keeler and Egolf, don't seem to factor in anyplace else either. I doubt more information on them would lead to much."

The elder detective nodded and drew a tentative line through each name. "I tend to agree. Cil and Shorty are minor players as well since I don't see them acting independently of Clipboard. That leaves us with the rebel leaders, Nicholas, who is most likely with them, and Elias."

"And Chet." Joe looked up at his dad, trying to gauge how much hope Fenton had for finding his friend.

"Of course - and Chet. Finding any of these others, though, is a good first step to finding him, too. I really need to talk to Elias about his contacts on the island."

His father was idly twirling his ring around his finger with his thumb, a habit Joe recognized as accompanying long trains of thought. Sighing, Joe scooted back into the cushions, waiting.

Whooo... WHOOOO... WHOOOOOOO... **WHHHHHOOOOT!**

Fenton dropped his head into his hands, reminding himself that his son's endless curiosity and ceaseless motion were God given gifts. The kindergarten teacher had said so. 

#####

"Mr. Hardy?" The detective snapped his eyes open at the soft inquiry, embarrassed that he'd dozed off. Jet lag was an undeniable force.

"Yes, I'm Fenton Hardy. This is my son, Joe." He turned to his son and realized the introduction was superfluous. The tiny brunette before him was already brazenly appraising his offspring, nearly jet eyes raking over the much taller American youth with a suggestive twinkle. A look Joe seemed happy to return. "My seventeen year old, high school student, lives at home with me, son, Joe."

"Ahem, yes sir, sorry." At least she had the decency to blush and shift her gaze to her shoes for a second. Kid's father couldn't be around every minute, right? "I'm Ellen. I'm sorry to be so late; I was trying to speak with Mr. Dahl before I came."

Fenton didn't quite hide his surprise. "Are you Mr. Dahl's assistant?" She looked young for that. Then again, she was gorgeous, and Mrs. Dahl had left years ago for a reason.

"No, more his receptionist. He hasn't chosen a new assistant since Mr. Shuman, uh, left." Ellen shifted a bit nervously, then flashed a smile at both of them.

Joe let a wry grin return to his face. "That's ok, we're aware of the circumstances behind Mr. Shuman's departure. So, when did you talk to Mr. Dahl last?"

She sat down in the striped arm chair next to Joe, clasped hands resting just at the edge of her overly short skirt, sliding it up another inch when Fenton looked away. "A week ago, almost."

"Isn't that a little odd?" Joe frowned slightly, then quickly replaced it with an expression of rapt interest. "If you're taking his messages, but don't know where he is, how's he supposed to get them?"

"Three or four days absence isn't out of character, really. He has a lot of trips to make away from the office and doesn't like to be disturbed. I did expect him sooner than this, though. Especially without Mr. Shuman available."

"So, you worked for him before he came to Indonesia?" Joe shifted backward a hair when her knee grazed his, but his smile widened.

Fenton stood, manufacturing a sudden interest in the traffic outside for Ellen's benefit. She was obviously more inclined to speak with Joe, and that suited him, as long as it didn't get out of hand. He stared out the window for a moment, then sat on the sill and started perusing his notes.

"For about a year now, actually." She darted a glance toward the window, then lowered her voice a notch. "I heard your Mom got the best of Mr. Shuman. He was always such a creep!"

A quickly stifled chuckle escaped Joe. "I think creep may have been the nicest thing she called him, come to think about it. So what about Dahl? Is he any better to work for?"

"Elias? Well, it's not that he's easy to work for, exactly, it's just that... well... I think he's very focused on doing whatever needs done, even if it doesn't make him the most popular person... maybe I'm putting it wrong. I mean, he's..." The alluring smile faltered as the voice trailed off.

"You mean he's your boss and you're not sure what you should say, right? That's alright, you don't have to answer." Joe winked before leaning in a bit closer. "Besides, I think you just did."

A quick look at his father caught the slight shoulder roll, enough to signal Joe that no portion of his little flirting session was going unnoticed. "Not sure I was really looking forward to meeting Mr. Dahl all that much anyway. The thing is, we need to go back to Ranei and he was sort of our best bet to get there. There aren't any commercial flights yet. Any ideas?"

"If you wanted to head around the corner to the coffee shop, we could talk about it. There are embassy personnel going back and forth, so it shouldn't be too hard to sweet talk somebody into taking you along." Her knee bumped Joe's again.

"Let's see, coffee with you or hanging around an office waiting for a grouchy guy no one's even seen in a week? What do you know, I'm feeling a caffeine attack coming on already. Lead the way."

Ellen started for the door, then seemingly remembered that she and Joe weren't alone. "You don't think your dad will mind? He seemed a little put off when I came in."

"Dad? Nah. Oh, he's got to make a show of reminding me to behave; it's his job, right? But something's caught his eye in those papers and he's like a dog with a bone when that happens. Doubt he'll even know we're gone."

"In that case, your coffee awaits." She got the door mostly closed before giving into a giggle, Joe close on her heels.

Three cups later, Joe was eyeing the picture window at the front of the cafe, sure his face ached from enforced smiling. Ellen was beautiful, and witty, but surprisingly forward for someone who had been pointedly told he was underage. Maybe it was time to propel things along.

"So, you've convinced me." He trotted out his very best grin, eyes focused solely on her and summoned up the dialog of every hokey soap opera he ever had the misfortune to watch. Sometimes you couldn't out vote Aunt Gertrude on the choice of TV.

"Of what?"

"That you can sweet talk the birds from the trees. Or me onto an island as the case may be. Where do we start?"

"You don't look much like a bird," Her tone was teasing. "but I think you're an improvement."

"No feathers, huh? Definitely not a bird, but I am interested in that flight. Think you can do that for me?"

"Well," Ellen ducked her head, cheeks flushing pink, "there isn't actually much sweet talking involved. I'm sure you can go on the next supply plane, I just wanted to have coffee with you."

She pulled a cell phone from her purse, quickly conversing with a male voice on the other end. "There's another flight at nine tonight and the embassy attaché will let our contacts on the island know to expect you."

"And my father?"

"Of course. You know, that's still seven hours from now and I don't live that far..."

It was Joe's turn to flush. "That sounds like more fun than coffee, but I'd better, ah..." A movement outside the window caught his eye. "Drat, there's my father. I'll have to take a rain check."

"A girl knows it when she hears an excuse, Joe Hardy." In spite of the words, the mischief never left her eyes.

"Not an excuse, Ellen, it's that I..."

She gave a knowing nod. "What's her name?"

"Who?"

"The one worth turning me down for."

"That obvious? I thought I was doing a better job than that." Joe finished a final drink from his cup and picked up the check. "Vanessa."

"My loss. Be at the fifth gate at the airport by eight o'clock." She walked a few steps away before tossing her hair over a shoulder and turning back to him. "Vanessa must be quite the catch, but if you happen to change your mind, I won't tell if you don't."

"I'll bear that in mind." Joe hurried from the shop, shoving his change into a pocket without any attempt to count the unfamiliar coins. He'd seen Fenton duck behind the corner and caught up with him a minute later.

"That was quite the performance, Joe. I thought Vanessa had your undivided attention." Fenton couldn't resist teasing his child.

"She does." Joe wrinkled his face into a scowl. "I'm not in the mood to flirt, but it's not like I forgot how."

"I doubt there's any danger of that. Watch your step with Ellen, though. Receptionist or not, she works for the Network. You may not be the only one that spent the afternoon play acting."

"Kind of figured that."

"Good."

"Other than enough caffeine to kill any chance I had of catching a nap, did this little charade do any good?"

"Yes." Fenton held up a handwritten page of notes. "I got it."

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to be continued...


	9. Chapter 9

A/N - Thank you to everyone reading, I'll love hearing from you and appreciate the kind reviews! I'm off typing on Diamond at the moment, but Chapter 10 of this will also go up today.

 **CHAPTER 8**

"So, how's my most infamous patient? The surgeon leaned forward in the blue tweed chair, elbows on scrub clad knees.

The bleary eyes of the youth before him roamed the room and eventually collided with the middle aged physician, but it was a few minutes before he was awake enough to answer. "Not infam-mous."

"I don't know that I'd say that. You're the first patient I've ever had that arrived here without a last name." A more than academic curiosity was evident on the grey bearded face.

"I h-have one, just n-not using it." Frank's voice gained volume and lost gravel as he finished blinking himself awake. He couldn't afford any drowsy slips of the tongue.

"Ok, we'll come back to that one. How about my first question? How are you feeling?"

Frank started to shrug until his shoulder reminded him precisely why he was flat on his back in a hospital room. He knew he'd been introduced to the doctor when he arrived at the hospital, but the man's name wouldn't come to him. _Guess we're even. Oh, Wilkins. Pay attention, it's on the name tag..._

"I'm ok, I think. My sh-shoulder hurts, but it's supposed to, r-right?" Frank raised the head of the bed, setting off a wave of vertigo. "Little queasy, maybe."

"I'm not surprised; the anesthesia wearing off does that. Your surgery went great, Frank. It'll take a few more months, but I think you're going to get almost full mobility back in that arm." Wilkins pushed the wildly printed surgical cap back off his head, revealing a thick shock of hair just as prematurely silver as his beard.

 _A few more months... peachy..._ "What's almost?"

"At a rough guess, I'd estimate eighty five to ninety five percent. To some degree it depends on how much effort you put into it."

"Ninety-five, then." Fully awake now, Frank took a more detailed look at the room. Grey and navy flecks were woven into the heavy fabric wallpaper, a pale wood chest graced one corner, and a small striped sofa nestled under a navy curtained window. Top notch for a private hospital room and most definitely not surgical recovery. He must have been out a lot longer than he thought.

"What t-time is it?"

The doctor chuckled. "About four in the morning. I had to come back in for an emergency case around midnight and decided to stop in since the nurse said you were finally stirring."

"F-four? But…" Frank blinked, trying to sort through the timeline in his head. He'd arrived here Monday night, met the medical staff and done his pre-op labs Tuesday morning, and gone into surgery right after two o'clock. "Fourteen hours?"

"Thirty-eight. It's Thursday morning."

The physician seemed unconcerned, but Frank blanched. "Th-Thursday. How?"

"Let's say diprivan and sevoflurane isn't the med combo for you. I thought you'd sleep for a week." The doctor tried to smile away his patient's sudden anxiety. He may not have received a full medical history when the young man arrived, but no one had marks like that unless someone else put them there. "Hey, it's not a problem, Frank. Some people are more sensitive to certain medications, particularly if they aren't used to taking much of anything. We'll use something else for your next procedure so you won't sleep so long. It'll be fine."

"My m-mother…. Is she here?" Frank knew that in theory, she was the one watching over him right now, but the idea of being completely incognizant of her whereabouts for more than a day didn't sit well with him.

"I spoke with her yesterday afternoon when I rounded." Dr. Wilkins stood and stretched, idly rubbing his forehead. He'd been in bed less than an hour when he'd gotten the call from the emergency room. "You're doing absolutely fine, don't worry about being alone for a few hours. I bet your mom went to a hotel for the night. The staff will keep a close eye on you and I promise I did a bang up job – nothing's going to go wrong. Now I'm going to grab a few more hours of sleep and I suggest you do the same. I should be back this afternoon after I finish the surgery cases and the nurses will call me if you have any problems at all before that."

Alternating between embarrassment and annoyance, Frank considered explaining his concerns. _This has next to nothing to do with a fearful need for my mommy, for Pete's sake. You're not grasping that unaccounted for Hardys is_ _ **not**_ _a good thing. Then again, you have no reason to know that…_ By the time he had a plausible explanation worked out, the doctor was gone.

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Thirty minutes later, he was on the verge of paging the nurse. Thumb on the call button, he was about to give in when Laura Hardy walked into the room.

"M-mom? Wh-where were you?" An urgent undertone colored the question.

"Frank, honey? Are you aIl right? I thought you were still sleeping. Maybe I should ask them to page your doctor."

"No, I'm f-fine. He was here a minute ago anyway. I didn't know wh-where you were." All the unstated reasons as to why that might bother him flitted across his face.

"I'm fine, Frank. I got stiff curled up on the couch and went for a walk. Yes, before you ask, I stayed inside the hospital. Yes, there were were plenty of people around. Yes, I kept an eye out for anyone acting strangely. And no, no one was. The coffee shop is open all night and I stopped for a muffin, then I sat in a chair right next to the counter and ate it. About as unsuspicious an activity as they come." Laura slipped into the vacated chair, automatically wrapping her hands around one of her son's. "You don't have to care of me right now – it's time to take of you, ok?"

"Y-yeah, but I'm g-good. Dr. Wilkins said the s-surgery went fine and the nurse brought me s-something for the ache in the shoulder, so I'm ok, Mom."

Laura paused, comparing that statement with the exhausted purple smudges still prominent below the dark eyes. Ill or not, her son didn't appreciate molly-coddling. "I'm sorry I missed Wilkins. When I talked to him earlier, he did seem pleased with your surgery. The plastic surgeon stopped by too and said he wants to do the final skin graft on Monday afternoon."

Frank frowned, remembering the already large sore patch on his hip. Harvesting enough skin for another graft didn't sound all that appealing, but he nodded anyway, not seeing any way around it. "Ok."

"It's going to look better that you think." Laura brushed a wisp of the dark hair back, momentarily seeing a much younger version of her child. "Everything they plan on grafting is on the upper arm and the surgeon seemed pretty confident he could keep the scarring under control."

"N-not thinking about th-that so much." _Although looking a little less like Frankenstein's monster would be nice…_ "I w-was hoping to g-get started back on physical th-therapy over th-the w-weekend, th-though."

Laura tried to reassure him, but she had misinterpreted the source of the negative expression. "It won't be that long before you're up and around again."

Frank nodded again, but his eyes were already drooping. "Th-thought the stutter was getting bet-ter…"

"It is, honey, but right now it's five AM, you've been sedated two days straight, and you just got another dose of pain medication. It's been a lot less noticeable this week and the speech therapist did warn us it would be worst when you're tired. Give yourself a little more time and I bet you'll hardly notice it at all…" Laura cut her redirected pep talk short to the sound of a soft snore.

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"Arrgghhh!" Joe shoved the stack of papers across the desk and dropped his head into his hands, rubbing at eyes that didn't want to focus any longer. "You finding anything?"

Fenton looked up from his own pile with a frustrated shake of his head. "Not yet. I've got the phone records for the main capitol building the week before the coup started, but so far it looks like routine calls. None of the names match the ones on Elias's office list."

"Yeah, none of the ones from this past week do either. Are you sure these names mean anything?"

"Yes. Elias Dahl isn't the most pleasant person in the world, but he's a good agent and extraordinarily efficient. I, ah, liberated this list from his locked safe - it means something."

Joe nodded, reluctantly reaching for the next sheaf of paper. He ended up with pre-coup private flight lists this time. "Be nice if we had some idea of what we we're looking for."

"Unfortunately, without talking to Dahl, it's pretty much down to either finding a connection to these people or discovering a pattern to the communications on our own. At least Connor managed to have some of the records translated." Fenton resumed scanning the text in front of him.

Connor. Now there was a puzzle. Fenton and Joe had arrived back in Ranei seventy two hours earlier, intending to speak with Connor Moore's widow as a starting point to piece the events of the coup together. To describe Fenton as surprised when Connor opened the front door would be a considerable understatement.

The former New York policeman had been equally speechless, quickly ushering the Hardys into his home. Connor confirmed Fenton really had heard someone die over the telephone the horrible day the coup started, it just hadn't been him. Several staff members of the large estate had been killed, and ultimately the militia had subdued the household, briefly jailing Connor, his wife, and her father in their own rooms.

His father-in-law's position as a government cabinet member made their rescue a priority when the legitimate army retook the capitol city, and they were fortunate to emerge from the entire mess relatively unscathed. Connor was still shaken by the experience and by the involvement of his immediate work superior in the overthrow attempt. He'd spoken to the man only moments before insurgents broke through his front door, and even tried to warn Fenton that his boss already knew of the plot.

Joe wasn't certain his father would ever feel warmly toward his prior friend again considering it was Connor who lured them to Ranei in the first place, but he was glad he'd survived the debacle. Now his sprawling open-air house was serving as the detectives' base of operations.

Joe shook his head, realizing he'd let his mind wander over Connor's explanation of recent events instead of reading the documents in front of him. Again. For some reason it kept playing over in his head, making him ill at ease, although it all fit together perfectly and his dad seemed satisfied. Sighing, he shook his head slightly, determined to return his attention to the matter at hand.

The unenlightening flight list discarded, Joe selected another sheet from the table at random, his eyes flicking between the shipping lane traffic reports and Elias's list somewhat erratically. While the text had been translated into English, the proper names were still Indonesian, of course, and the unfamiliar language was giving him some trouble. The cramped typing wavered in and out of focus while his mind teased at a nagging tidbit, then suddenly snapped into clarity.

"Dad, look at this." Joe carefully kept his voice neutral, wondering if his father would spot the same thing or if he was simply pushing too hard for a connection.

Fenton turned the shipping log around, following Joe's finger to several dates both before and after the short lived revolution. The dates matched those on Elias's list, but the names did not. Then it jumped at him, too.

"The names on Elias's list; they aren't people."

Joe broke into a smile at his dad's conclusion and finished the thought. "They're ships - and we've got a log of where they went!" 

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to be continued...


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER 9**

Chet squinted at the pulsing orange disc, watching the sun settle into a blood hued sea. A vague wariness tickled at him, but after another day of hefting stones onto the ever growing camp perimeter wall, he couldn't tweak the feeling into full blown alarm. For whatever reason, he and a dozen of his fellow prisoners had been separated from the others as the day ended, prodded toward the beach rather than the barracks. He'd seen a few other groups similarly led away at night and they mainly returned before dawn, so investing too much worry in it wasn't worthwhile.

Five minutes later, the small group halted on the coarse-gritted black sand. Six militia members accompanied them, four of those quickly looping rope through the cuffs on each young man's ankle and anchoring it to a stout palm tree. That done, they departed, leaving two gunmen to stand guard. A half hour passed in silence, Chet shifting foot to foot, trying to ease the aches of the day. Eventually a distant hum percolated into the fading light.

The hum became recognizable as an approaching engine out on the ink-dark water, then halted off shore. A smattering of clangs, bangs, and voices followed, culminating in muted splashes. A few minutes more and small inflatable boats skidded onto the sand, piled high with supplies.

Chet quickly found himself unloading boats by torchlight, while five of the boys were pressed into service pulling wooden carts back and forth to the wall building sites. He finally flopped onto the sand hours later, panting and staring up at the stars as the ant stream of ferried items ceased, the last box heaved into the wagons.

Exhausted as he was, Chet realized he'd gotten the better end of the deal. The five youths used as pack mules all sported a vicious crop of new bruises and one of them failed to get up after the short lived water break. A guard prodded the kid a few times with a sandaled foot, then shot him when he wouldn't stand. By the time the imprisoned souls were led back to the huts they called home, periwinkle daybreak streaked the sky.

Chet didn't bother to lie down, aware the slop of breakfast was mere minutes away. The long night compounded his ever growing weariness, and the missed dinner was no longer a good thing for a diminishing Chet Morton. Gathering the energy to face another day of laying block on no sleep was proving extraordinarily challenging.

Shifting to ease a cramp in his leg, Chet heard the chain on his ankle clank. The sound triggered a wisp of tenuous thought; some significance to the jangling that lurked right below the surface of awareness. The night had passed with a rope tethering his leg, not the now replaced metal links. He'd spent the dark hours praying he'd never see the supply work detail again, but the elusive thought in his head suddenly congealed, and he found himself praying exactly the opposite. Fingering the sliver of bone he'd hidden in his pallet weeks ago, he felt the honed edge prick at the pad of his thumb. It just might be sharp enough. A rare smile graced the grime streaked face. 

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Joe stretched, shifting his chair sideways so Connor's wife could deposit a tray of sandwiches and fruit on the paper strewn table. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." She nodded at the half empty water pitcher. "Would you like anything else to drink?"

Seeing the small shake of his head, she looked across the table. "How about you, Fenton?"

"Oh, no thank you. We're fine." His answer was distracted, attention already split between reading in the dim light and watching Joe shield his notes.

"All right then. Connor should be home in about an hour if you need anything. I'm going to make an early night of it."

As soon as the reed-woven door slid closed behind her, Fenton shot a curious glance at his son. "Hiding your paperwork, Joe?"

"What? No, I was just..." Joe's answered trailed off at his father's raised eyebrow. "Yeah, guess I was. Don't you think she's a little, I don't know, weird?"

"Weird how?"

He shook his head, blonde waves trailing over his forehead. "I don't know. She's nice enough to us, but she makes me fidgety somehow."

Fenton continued to gaze at his son, waiting.

"Sorry, Dad, it's just a vibe. I take it you don't agree."

"Actually, I do." Fenton poured himself another half tumbler of water, tipping the contents back and forth as he thought. "I think what you're sensing is that she makes Connor nervous. I noticed it more yesterday when her father was here."

"So you think it's some marital in-law thing between them? Nothing to do with us being here?"

"It's definitely something between them, but that's no guarantee it doesn't involve us. Can't hurt to be careful with our information, anyway." The older detective gazed at the other half of the table, studying the highlighted lines. Ever since their realization that Elias had provided them with a list of ships, they'd been scanning the shipping logs for other trips made by those particular vessels. Several had quickly been eliminated as legitimate trading ships; a few were easily identified as government vessels still in the harbor.

That left about two dozen boats that appeared to be private and had been in and out of port multiple times in the weeks before and after the coup. Joe had been searching owner registries, seeing if any of them were directly owned by government officials or military officers, while Fenton correlated the names with local markets, assuming many of the vessels would belong to area fishermen. Gathering as much information as they could in town during the day, the past few evenings had found them sitting on this veranda overlooking the sea, comparing notes and crossing out ships no longer deemed suspicious.

The list finally pared down to four boats that seemed to have unexpected time lapses between their arrival at offshore destinations and their return to the capitol harbor. None of them directly belonged to any of the missing government officials, or to anyone on Fenton's original hotel list, but that didn't necessarily signify anything. There had to be hundreds if not thousands of minor government employees and military personnel who were unknown to the Hardys.

Both detectives returned to reading, unconsciously finishing the food as they worked. Fenton eventually stood, crossing the broad planked floor. "I think we need to decide something before we go any further, Joe."

Joe jerked his head up, startled by the intrusion of his father's voice into the salt air. "What?"

"We came over here with two objectives and I'm not certain that's the case any longer. You know I've spent part of my time in the city trying to track down Elias Dahl as well hanging about fish markets?"

In spite of the situation, Joe had to grin. "That's not how it smelled when you got back here..."

Fenton let out a half-hearted chuckle, grateful for his irrepressible younger child, appropriate timing or not. "Be that as it may, there's no sign of him anywhere and none of the embassy staff in Jakarta have heard from him either. So it seems any commitment I owed Elias has taken a backseat to searching for Chet."

"Dad, you've gotta know this has been about Chet from the beginning for me." Joe was all for honoring obligations, but he hadn't promised the Network agent a thing. _The jerk shouldn't have put a price tag on helping Dad in the first place..._

"I know that, and if I'd come back here strictly to keep a promise to Elias, I wouldn't have brought you along." Fenton paused, searching for the best way to word his concerns. "We're working on the assumption that finding these ships means finding the remaining rebels, and that means finding Chet, correct?"

"I think it's more than an assumption-"

Fenton idly waved a hand, forestalling the remainder of Joe's comment. "I didn't mean otherwise. Once we know where he is, though, we can't simply charge in there and grab him."

Joe nodded, having concluded the same thing days ago. He firmly resisted an urge to roll his eyes. If he had been talking with Frank, he would have. "I know. You've been putting this conversation off because you thought I might try that, haven't you?"

His father looked slightly chagrined. "Something like that. I guess somewhere in the midst of watching you plow through research for a week solid I should have remembered you're not that impetuous little boy anymore, huh?"

A mischievous smile lit Joe's face. "Oh, he's still in here, I just installed a few safeguards before I run off pell mell now days - can't rely on you or Frank to be my common sense forever." Seeing that Fenton appeared more melancholy than amused, Joe dimmed the wattage on his grin and adopted a more serious tone. "It's ok, Dad. I **can** look before I leap, promise."

"I know you can, Joe, and I never wanted to imply you wouldn't use common sense. I just keep seeing what these people did to your brother, and I'm afraid to have you anywhere near them."

"I don't see how we can avoid getting near them, but I will be careful. I have no desire to be their new punching bag, either." Joe hesitated, then added a soft question. "You think Frank's ok?"

"And I'm the one who keeps reminding Laura you're growing up..." Fenton's quiet mutter remained under his breath, never reaching his son's ears, before he offered a louder reassurance aimed as much at himself as Joe. "I'm sure your brother's fine, ok? I'm worried about him, too, but he's going to be fine."

He shook off the momentary foray into worried fatherhood and returned to meticulous detective. "You're right, we can't stay away from the militia and rescue Chet at the same time, but we can recruit some help. I think we've got two options."

Joe shifted back into work mode too, nodding as he started to speak. "So, you want to go with the Network agents in Jakarta or the Raneian government guys?" The options in question seemed obvious to him as well. _And there's a chopped liver versus brussel sprouts choice if there ever was one..._

"Ordinarily, I'd say the Network, but Nicholas Shuman's defection throws a curve into that. We know he turned double agent, but we don't know if he corrupted anyone else in the staff and I'm not personally familiar with the agents in the area."

"But we don't know the Ranei officials any better to decide which of them to trust..."

"True, but Connor does. We'll have to rely on that to some extent. Besides, the Raneian officials should be more motivated to eliminate the rogue soldiers before they can take over again." Fenton paced the length of the porch, pausing at the corner where the sea breeze could ruffle his hair.

 _Then why haven't they done it yet..._ "That makes sense, but it seems like they should have come up with this information on their own by now. And we're going to have to notify the embassy in Jakarta at some point since most of our suspected rebel locations are in Indonesian territory." Joe frowned as he turned that last thought over.

"There will have to be a formal notification, but I doubt it will be a high priority communication on either side. Seven or eight thousand of the Indonesian islands are unpopulated and their government can't babysit all of them."

"Ok, I concede that point, but what about the Ranei folks? Why are they being so slow cleaning their own house?"

The elder detective contemplated that before answering. "Maybe they're not. They may have located the rebels already and be waiting on the best time to strike. Or perhaps they're too busy unearthing the city to do anything else. I admit it's peculiar, but we won't have an explanation unless we officially take our information to the what remains of President Moluki's government."

Joe sighed, still uncomfortable. _When in doubt, stall_. "So, why's the Network here anyway? Sounds more like CIA business to me. This was an internal overthrow attempt, not terrorism."

Fenton tilted his head, aware of the diversionary tactic and opting to answer anyway. "Not yet. Ranei sits among the eastern islands of Indonesia, but culturally it's pretty different, so there's always been a bit of tension between the two. Right now, they're both secular democracies, but Indonesia is an up and coming player in world trade, has modern cities and a large, multicultural population. Ranei is small, insular, and conservative to the point of being archaic throughout most of the country. A radical government here could easily export terrorism throughout the area."

"And Indonesia would be vulnerable to that just on the basis of being decentralized and being a young country. It declared independence from the Dutch in 1945, right? Although the Japanese had actually been in control for several years by then, I guess." Contrary to rumor, Joe was a more than passable history student, especially if he expected to find himself in the nation in question.

"Right." Fenton studied his son's expression. "You didn't need that little recap. What's still bothering you, Joe?"

The younger Hardy joined his father at the hand-hewn railing, staring out at the shimmering silver caps on the night-black ocean. "They don't already know."

"What?"

"You said maybe the Ranei government already knows where the rebels are. They don't." Joe plucked at back of his damp shirt, turning into the soft wind. Even long after sundown, it was insufferably hot. "We're staying with a mid-level bureaucrat, who happens to be the son-in-law of a senior government secretary. We haven't shared our notes, but they both know we're searching for rebel militia hideouts. If they already know where those are, why let us dig around for a week?" _Unless they're intentionally wasting our time..._

Fenton rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly tired. "A valid point. Although you have to bear in mind that Connor is only a mid-level player. He might not be privy to the information."

"And Minister Mejki?" The mid-level argument certainly didn't apply to Moore's father-in-law, who basically held a position in the Raneian government equivalent to Secretary of State.

"Maybe he doesn't trust us." Fenton stifled a yawn. "It's late. Why don't we both get some sleep and let this roll around a little more before we decide what to do. In the morning, I'll go see Mr. Mejki and try to get a feel for him."

"You sure that's a good idea? We could go together."

Fenton shook his head. "The possibility that it's not a good idea is why you're not going. I doubt there'll be a problem, though. He does already know what we're doing, so that won't be of any surprise, and I don't intend to divulge the details yet. I can always tell him I was at the wharf again and wanted to thank him for his hospitality in person since he's not staying here on the estate."

"Plausible, I guess." Joe shrugged. "And what am I supposed to be doing while you hob-knob with him?"

"Head back to the harbor and see if any of our ships are back."

The soft murmur of the surf deftly covered a faint click from the door behind them.

"Ok." Joe covered a yawn of his own, reluctantly admitting he was asleep on his feet. "I'm turning in."

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The morning was beautiful, light sparkling off turquoise waves as a variety of deep green turtles baked themselves on the sand. Fenton had already departed when Joe woke up, so the younger Hardy grabbed some date bread and opted to make breakfast a beach picnic affair.

"Good morning."

Hastily swallowing, the youth squinted up into the sun. "Hello, Mr. Moore."

"Connor's fine, Joe. Your dad said you were heading back to the harbor this morning." The older man settled into the sand, kicking off his sandals.

"Yeah. Dad doesn't need me to do anything until afternoon and I thought I'd goof off awhile." Joe leaned back on his elbows, doing his best to appear disinterested. "Maybe I could go out on one of those fishing boat tours. Get a different look at the coastline."

"I've got a surf board you can borrow if you'd rather stay here. I don't think any of the tourist outings have resumed since the coup attempt."

"No, thanks though. I can always walk around and see the sights that way if none of the fishermen are taking passengers out."

"I suppose. You know, all vessel outings that leave the harbor itself have been under military control since the army regained control of the port, but the guy in charge is a friend of mine. He could probably tell you when it's all going to get back to normal, maybe even arrange a ride. Your dad thought you might want to talk to him."

"If he's in charge of the only commercial port in the country, I doubt he has time to chat about fishing and joy rides." Joe pondered the offer.

"Maybe, maybe not. I bet he'd enjoy an excuse to take a lunch break, truth be told." Connor shrugged, then pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his shorts, fumbling about for a pen and scrawling a name. "Here you go. I'll call him and tell you might stop by."

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Two hours later, Joe hadn't spotted any of the vessels he was seeking, and it was looking more and more like the morning really was going to be mere sight-seeing. Not that the shelled buildings and fire blackened rubble were typical vacation fare. Drawing the rumpled paper from his pocket, he checked the name and address, confirming it was the bullet scarred office building in front of him.

 _Col. Argo Manado... Not sure what the good Col. Manado can tell me about my missing boats, but maybe the morning won't be a complete waste..._

Joe entered a stone floored atrium, welcome relief from the tropical heat, and approached a young soldier seated at the central counter. Somehow the door closing behind him set off an unexpected wave of unease. _Pull it together, Joe, Dad trusts Connor. Not like you're here to join up, anyway..._ "Hi. I'm Joe Hardy. I think Col. Manado might be expecting me?"

The ebony haired private consulted a list on his desk and smiled, apparently perfectly comfortable with questions in English. His reply was only slightly accented. "Yes, you're on the visitor list. Take the stairs to the third floor and go all the way to the end of the hall. His office is the last door on the left."

Joe climbed up the dim stairwell, emerging in a formal corridor with narrow, scrollwork windows. The cross breeze was heavenly. Dark teak doors contrasted with the pale stone of the walls, the final one neatly lettered with the colonel's name.

A voice from within instantly responded to his knock, and Joe entered, arriving in a small foyer occupied by a young, uniformed clerk. The colonel's office stretched beyond an open door.

Joe glanced into the other room just as the clerk moved to stand behind him, the color from his face instantly puddling in his toes.

"N-no. You're Colonel Manado?" Joe wished his voice hadn't come out as a breathless rasp. _No, no, not happening... I didn't go anywhere I wasn't supposed to, stuck to the areas Dad and Connor approved... tried to play it safe, Dad... really... some days it doesn't pay to get out of bed..._

"Mr. Hardy, charming to meet you again! Your nose has healed nicely, has it not?" The army officer rapidly closed the gap to the stunned youth, open hand extended. "Do come in and quit skulking about, I have not had the opportunity to extend my condolences regarding your brother."

Joe backpedaled until his spine rammed into the soldier behind him, effectively blocking his exit.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not." Joe snarled out the words even as he slammed his elbow back and up, striking the other boy mid-stomach and doubling him over. Ducking below the crumpling form, Joe shoved him sideways and kicked out at the older man, sending his knee in a direction it was never meant to go.

The colonel managed to lurch back to his feet before Joe could scramble out the door, landing a hard punch along the blonde youth's jaw. Joe's answering hook fell several inches short when the recovering aide wrapped both arms around his chest and yanked him from behind.

Struggling to free his arms, Joe rocked backward to launch both legs at the officer in front of him, the clerk serving as a convenient fulcrum. His feet planted in the colonel's chest, flattening the older man.

Joe nearly succeeded in breaking free, but the noise of the scuffle brought reinforcements from the hall. Straightening as he threw the young soldier off his back, Joe found himself at the center of a circle of camouflage clad men. A very well armed circle of men.

Manado smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about the expression as he composed himself and waited for breath to return to his bruised chest. "I will pardon you for visiting on short notice, Joseph, but your manners are unforgivably atrocious. Now sit down and make some pretense at civilized behavior.

"No."

The protest didn't do Joe any good. One of soldiers backhanded him, knocking him into a chair whether he intended to sit or not.

Joe swiped blood from his now split lip with the back of his hand, his eyes never swerving from where Col. Manado stood above him. "I seriously doubt you'd recognize civilized behavior if it hit you over the head, Clipboard."

"Ah, yes, I had heard you gifted me with a nickname during your last visit to our island." Manado accepted a gun from one of his underlings and lifted Joe's chin with the barrel. "I do not care for it. You would do well to remember that." 

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to be continued...


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** So, we're visiting some old, ah, friends again in this story. At least Clipboard has an actual name now, so small favors... I got some of the most interesting suggestions last time on what I should name him... about like you'd imagine. Anyways, thank you to Cherylann, Paulina Ann, EvergreenDreamweaver, and ErinJordan and to everyone who's reading along.

 **CHAPTER 10**

Fenton slouched against the silver veined marble of the capitol building wall, exerting great effort in ignoring that his rump was completely asleep. The unforgiving carved bench under said rump didn't appear to be impressed.

The third of detective work that was adrenaline junkie nirvana; hovering amongst well choreographed chaos, clandestine forays guided as much by instinct as preparation, and flashes of triumph intermingled with risk and sometimes outright fear - all that he'd come to terms with years ago. If he was honest, he was as attracted to the excitement of this life as much now as he had been entering the police academy twenty years ago. Laura told him once that she had learned to live with it; Fenton wondered at times if he didn't live _**for**_ it.

The third of his career that entailed sifting through a mountain of irrelevant snippets to glean the few clues that would lay a case bare was undeniably calmer, but it produced a certain satisfaction. Neither he, nor Joe, might ever develop the same intellectual affection for research that seemed to be inborn in Frank, but the moment all the deductions coalesced into a solution was still fulfilling on an almost visceral level. He'd once thought teaching Joe to tolerate this slower paced work might be the death of both of them, at least if you could be rendered deceased from an excess of exasperation. It was his elder son that came to the rescue, winning Joe over by infusing the chore with the boys' innate competitiveness. A muffled laugh escaped as the senior Hardy recalled a twelve year old Joe smirking at his sibling, proudly proclaiming 'I can sort out more clues than you, I can write them down faster than you, and I can use up more pencils doing it.'

Then there was the third he was currently engaged in, sheer mind numbing boredom. He couldn't recall any particular successes in instructing his children in how to handle this aspect of their prospective career, primarily because he hadn't figured it out himself. He'd mastered the art of appearing patient during long stakeouts or manufacturing a polite smile when obligated to wait for hours on end, but he was well aware that appearing patient and being patient were not equivalent states. Somewhere inside, the outwardly unflappable professional had all the patience of Joe at three, and he knew it.

Fenton crossed his legs, left ankle now perched across his right knee, and intently studied his shoe. The woven sandal was composed of thin leather strips in an alternating pattern of cordovan and deep brown. Laura would have called them huaraches. He remained convinced he had not and would not wear anything with such a ridiculous name, and he wouldn't have been wearing the perforated mess of shoelaces suffering delusions of grandeur now if they weren't the universal footwear of Ranei. The sole of the shoe was discolored black in random splotches for no reason he could discern. Stupid sandals.

Glancing at his watch he realized that his mental treatise on the nature of modern detective work a-la Hardy and an extraordinarily thorough inspection of his footwear had occupied precisely sixteen minutes. Add that to the one hundred and thirty minutes he'd passed on equally fruitful mental endeavors, and maybe it was time to give up.

He'd left the Mejki estate early this morning after a quick cup of coffee with the Moores. Connor walked him out, promising to pass along some names to Joe to expedite searching the harbor, while Fenton headed for the capitol complex, hoping to speak with his elusive host. While Mr. Mejki owned the extensive house and grounds outside the city, only Connor and his wife had been living there since the coup, the government minister citing a need to be closer to the city until the crisis resolved.

Now, one hundred and forty six minutes later, Fenton sat in the octagonal capitol lobby, waiting on Mejki to appear. All three entrances to the century old stone structure could be seen from his current location, and he'd confirmed the Secretary hadn't arrived for the day before he did. He sighed and checked his watch again. Make that one hundred and forty eight minutes.

Standing and casually walking the circumference of the chamber, he perused the historical paintings and their accompanying brass plaques, idly noting these were the same the world over. Only one wall sported significant damage from the recent battle, the pristine white divided by an ugly charred scar. Finding no further available excuse to loiter, Fenton shrugged and left the cool oasis for the crowd-choked heat of the street. One hundred and sixty three.

His feet found their way to the harbor almost before he acknowledged the decision to go there. The military office building to the far left of the port also bore the Swiss cheesed evidence of the failed military takeover, but a fair number of uniformed personnel were still making their way in and out. Perhaps Joe had learned something useful to salvage the morning.

A youngish soldier rounded the corner just as Fenton did, brushing the American's shoulder in his haste. The older Hardy wasn't particularly offended and made it an additional three steps before the face registered. He had no idea what the youth's name might be, but he was absolutely certain he'd seen him before - across a hotel lobby almost seven weeks ago. The scene had imprinted itself in amazing detail the moment it entailed both of his children surrounded by guns.

Backtracking and flattening himself against the outer wall of building, Fenton peered around the edge of the wall, careful to remain in the shadows. A half dozen young men walked past, none of them familiar, and he relaxed his posture slightly. Connor had sent Joe here for information, but that didn't mean his son had followed that particular instruction. Maybe everything was still ok.

Fenton squelched his growing suspicions about his friend, knowing he didn't have the time to indulge them. Joe had been uncomfortable with the Moores since returning to Ranei, but Fenton had been confident their apology for luring his family to the island initially was sincere. Surely he hadn't misjudged Connor that badly. Slipping away, he walked the short distance to the docks, seeking out the fishermen he'd talked with over the last week. Only a few spoke English, and it took him a half hour to locate someone both capable and willing to answer his questions.

Twenty long minutes later, Fenton had a reply that twisted his insides into a tight knot of anger and fear. Yes, the locals had seen an American teenager enter the army's port office this morning. Yes, he was blonde and tall. Yes, he'd already departed. Yes, he walked into the building alone and by choice. And, no, he didn't leave the same way.

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"I hate you. I'm sure of it n-now."

Frank wiped the side of his face against his shoulder, trying to clear enough of the sweat from his eyes to see without releasing the rail squeezed tight in his left hand. He froze when he realized even that small arm movement threatened his precarious relationship with upright balance. The next three seconds or so passed in slow motion, at least in his mind. He had time to register the moisture trickling down his spine, the rasp of breath in his already dry throat, and the increasing tremor of his unsteady legs while he locked eyes with his adversary. He held the gaze a moment before he finally lost the one handed grip, his exhausted body crumpling to the floor.

"You can hate me later, Frank." The lithe redhead in black scrubs knelt beside him, frowning when he didn't immediately answer. "Frank? Hey, you get to be mad at me, but you don't get to ignore me. You ok?"

He sprawled on the mat, annoyed with the reawakened throbbing in his sling-encased right arm and panted while he considered the question. Maybe if he ignored her, she'd magically disappear. Ok, so maybe not. "Yeah, I'm f-fine. I just th-thought it would be a great t-time to get a little up close and personal st-study time with the floor." _Wonderful, my brain's decided to channel Joe for the day... miss him... hope he's ok... time to come home, Joe... am I awful to think that?... yeah, I am..._

She waited another minute, the long braid over her shoulder trailing the canvas mat as she leaned lower to get a better look at his face. "Don't know where you go to school, but you look a little past the grades that have nap time - so no more lounging down here. Can you get up?"

"Possibly." Frank's tone had geared down to conversationally indifferent, and he made no effort to move. Soft fingers eventually wrapped around his good forearm, gently tugging him upward. He lurched to a seated position and tried to conjure a smile. "S-sorry. I feel stupid for f-f-falling."

"Um-hmm. You look stupid, too, I might add." She made sure her grey eyes caught his brown ones once more. "Nobody likes that 'I told you so' bit, but I told you so. You're trying to do too much on your own."

"Anybody ever compliment you on your ch-charming bedside m-manner?"

"Not that I recall." In spite of the words, her tone was warm and genuinely concerned. Perhaps ten years her patient's senior, she was a well thought of physical therapist at the university med center now providing Frank's care. "I think we should call it a day and try this tomorrow - with the harness so you don't fall again, ok?"

"Now th-that th-thing I really do hate. You sh-shouldn't need enough equipment to repel down El Capitan to w-walk across the floor between a pair of poles." _Yep, I'm definitely thinking like Joe... resident smart alec is his job... wish he was here to do it..._

"You won't need the support for long if you'll allow yourself a little more time to heal. You are going to walk around fine by yourself someday soon, Frank, it just isn't going to be today. I don't baby anybody in this gym; you know that by now. If I say you still need the help, then you need it." She stood and planted her feet a bit apart before signaling another therapist to help her hoist her charge back to his feet. Favorite patient or not, he was heavy.

"One more try t-today?"

This time her laugh was accompanied by a raised eyebrows and a half incredulous tone. "Are you listening to me at all? No, no, no I say! You're pushing too hard."

Frank reluctantly sat in the wheelchair he suddenly felt behind his knees and accepted the pillow she handed him to elevate his sling. Thinking better of meekly accepting the arrangement, he jokingly brandished the cushion and managed to match the mischief in her voice. "I will w-walk all the way to your end of the p-p-parallel bars tomorrow, even if it's only to bop you when I get th-there."

"I'll make a note in my datebook to be sure to wear a helmet. Come on, let's get you back to your room before you think you really are up to mountain climbing tomorrow."

"R-repelling is down, not up."

"What?" She shook her head, wondering what he was talking about.

"You s-said climbing. I said repelling. It's not the same th-thing."

"Naturally. Was I supposed to know that?"

"Um, guess not." Frank grinned again, glad to be a little more mobile the last few days, even if he had fallen this time.

"Promise me no mountain expeditions anytime soon - up or down."

"Th-that's an easy one. Deal."

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to be continued...


	12. Chapter 12

**#**

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 **CHAPTER 11**

"Did...you...know?" The words were succinctly clipped and menacing.

Connor jumped at the growl in his ear. He'd been dozing as the hazy afternoon sun filtered through his living room window, tired after a nervous night spent more up than down. He couldn't place the voice behind him immediately and started to twist around when the guttural question came again, accompanied by a hand clamped on each of his shoulders.

"I said, Did...You... Know?! Answer me!" The volume of the harsh inquiry didn't get any louder. It didn't need to.

"F-Fenton?"

"Yes, Fenton." The detective crossed in front of Connor, somehow cornering the smaller man in the center of a room that had to be twenty feet square. "I want an answer. Did you know who Col. Manado was when you sent Joe there this morning?"

"Did I know what?" Connor's voice held an unfortunate squeak and he tried to rapidly tumble out enough words to avoid the fury in his friend's eyes. "I mean, I know who Manado is, of course, he's the officer that got put in charge of policing the harbor since the army took it over, I've known him for a number of years, come to think about it, and I guess he would have had some duties with the army before that, he is a colonel after all, so that stands to reason, and with him being in charge of the shipping lanes, and Joe, well and you, too, naturally, looking for ships it seemed sort of like he'd be an obvious person to talk to, but I'm really not sure what you're asking me, Fenton, because you sound like there's some sort of problem and I don't really see why that would be just from speaking with him, although you could ask Joe, I suppose, since he's the one that..."

"STOP." Fenton leaned over Connor's chair, one tense hand gripping each armrest, effectively boxing him in. "Just stop, Connor. I would love to ask Joe, but I don't exactly see him here, do you? I think you know **exactly** what I'm asking. Manado is the colonel that led the coup attempt, or at least the actual fighting component of it. You've heard Joe refer to him as Clipboard, but we didn't have his actual name. Did... you... know?"

"WHAT? Of course not. How could he possibly be the same person? I think you must have this confused." Connor squirmed in the oversized furniture, unable to back up any further. "Did Joe tell you that? It's awfully easy for a kid his age to make a rookie mistake on something like that; I know how much he wants to find his friend and that's going to make him eager to identify anyone responsible. His subconscious may be tricking him into finding a culprit anywhere he can..."

"Stop. Talking. Now."

The talking stopped.

"Joe wouldn't be mistaken on something that important, but he's not the one who gave me that little tidbit of information. It's an interesting story, actually, my friend." Fenton leaned in another notch, his nose eight inches from Connor's. "I got to looking for my son to see how his fact finding mission went this morning and imagine my surprise when I bumped into one of the rebel soldiers exiting the building where you sent Joe. Two hours worth of questions later and I've got a child that was dragged out of said building at gunpoint and a petrified fisherman that finally coughed up the name of man in charge. Seems all the locals are well aware of the coup connections of the officers in that building and they're terrified. The ones that are still alive anyway. Once I had the name it wasn't all that hard to dig up an old newspaper photograph of the colonel - and there he was in all his glory - Clipboard, aka Manado!"

"I didn't know, Fenton, I swear... This is awful... What are you going do? I can't believe this... Joe's going to be ok, though, right?... It has to be some kind of mistake..."

The American detective stopped the flow of superfluous babble with a glare this time, staring for long seconds before he trusted himself to speak again. "I've got a pretty good sense for when someone is lying to me, Moore, and right now you're setting off more alarm bells than the Great Chicago Fire. Let me save us both some time. I did some photo sharing of my own, and a few of those fisherman saw you with Clipboard and your father-in-law in that same building on the wharf _**during**_ the coup attempt."

Connor paled and closed his eyes, not bothering to open them when he spoke. "It isn't how you think, Fenton... You have to understand what this has been like for me."

"For _**you**_? Yeah, maybe you better explain that one to me." Fenton backed off a step, but his stone carved expression didn't alter a bit.

"I didn't know who was involved in this whole mess when I asked you to come over here the first time. Honestly, I didn't. I just kept seeing all the transfers of funds and supplies and knew something was brewing. Then the coup started and it was all literally right in my front door... blood smeared all over the foyer. That boy I said the soldiers killed? I lied. My father-in-law slit his throat. Mejki's been in this up to his neck from the very beginning and my wife..." Connor's voice actually broke a bit... "my wife knew. No, more than knew, she helped orchestrate the whole damn thing. I thought I could call you that first day and you'd take Laura and the boys and get out, but it was all too late..."

The smaller man gazed at his long time friend, seeking any glimmer of understanding there. "It's been hell, Fenton. They watch every single thing I do; Marissa has made it more than clear I'm expendable if I don't toe the line. Last night... last night Mejki was here, too, screaming about you closing in on their hideouts. Marissa was so angry... I'm sorry, I am, but I had to give them something. They'll kill me otherwise, I know that now..."

Fenton lowered his frame onto the sofa, his hands scrubbing over his face. "And what you gavethem was Joe."

Connor nodded once. "I had to, Fent, surely you can see that? It was you or Joe, and we've known each other so long. How long have we been friends? Twenty years? Twenty five? I couldn't do that to you, hand you over, I just couldn't, but I couldn't let them kill me either. That left Joe."

The American detective clamped his teeth together tightly enough to crack. It took every ounce of control he'd mastered in his forty-seven years not to pound the man before him into a very small oily spot in the pattern of the very pretentious oriental rug. When he finally spoke it was an almost inaudible hiss. "I know the good Lord never blessed you and Marissa with a baby, but how in heaven's name could you think I wouldn't trade places with Joe right now? He's my **son** , Connor. There isn't a single thing that you could have done to betray our friendship that would remotely approach handing over my child to that monster."

"Fenton, no, you don't understand..."

"I don't understand?... I don't understand!? YOU SOLD MY SON TO SAVE YOUR COWARDLY TRAITOR HIDE! WHAT'S TO UNDERSTAND?!"

Fenton never realized he abandoned the cushioned divan, tenuous mastery of temper cracking; didn't feel his hand twist a wad of the other man's collar tight enough to choke him. Connor's brief gasp for air went unnoted as well, as did the skidding thump from across the room that followed. It wasn't until Fenton wiped the blood from his knuckles onto his shirt hem that his brain caught up with the irresistible urge to punch someone, residual fury radiating off the detective in palpable waves.

Connor blinked stupidly a few times, the embossed tiles of the tin ceiling suddenly performing an intricate waltz. He opted not to move, flinching slightly when Fenton filled his wavering field of vision. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

"Save it." Fenton's chest heaved, hard breaths resulting more from barely contained anger than exertion. He couldn't remember the last time he'd lost his temper this completely. "The only use I have for you right now is information. What's supposed to happen now? I stop searching in return for Joe?"

Connor said nothing when the larger man hauled him from the floor and flung him onto the sofa, grateful he didn't get hit again. "No."

"What then?" Fenton hadn't really thought it would be that simple, but he wanted to hold onto that hope another moment. "Don't tell me you don't know; I can see that you do."

Deep brown hair hid the islander's eyes as he stared at the floor. "Mejki and Manado don't want anything in return for Joe, they want rid of him. Want rid of both of you, but I fixed it so you have a chance. I sent Joe there so I'd have the chance to help you. Why don't you understand that? I convinced Mejki I couldn't get both of you to the harbor at the same time, that they'd have to come here for you tonight. My plan's keeping them focused on Joe and you can still get away, don't you see? I can at least offer you that. Go, Fenton, I've bought you all the time I can. I tried, I really did... I'm sorry."

"I said save it. The only thing you tried to do is save your own scrawny neck." The low words still dripped livid warning even as Fenton's fists found their way into the rumpled shirt once more, drawing Connor half way to his feet. "I don't have any more time to waste, but I can tell you this. If you ever have the gall to walk into a room with my son again, don't count on walking out of it."

Fenton paused to compose himself a bit further, fear, disgust, and betrayal threatening to churn their way into an entire flurry of punches. "I am not leaving Ranei without Joe. You tell me everything you know about where they might have taken him, and you do it right now."

An erratic noise that might have been a fearful sob slipped from Connor's rapidly swelling lip. "They'll have executed him before you can get there. I'm so sorry... please... go home to Laura."

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to be continued...


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER 12**

 _No, don't... don't... no... No..._ "NO!"

Laura sighed and eased the wadded blanket from Frank's fist. There wasn't any point in waking him up again, he'd simply deny the nightmare and perhaps he was managing a little rest in there somewhere. She couldn't recall a single night since he'd awakened over a month ago in Jakarta that had passed in complete peace, but at least he was becoming a little more talkative during the day. To strangers he'd even achieved a superficial charm. Not that she had any illusions about just how guarded those conversations still were. Maybe when Joe got home the veneer would peel free. Until then she'd have to content herself with discussions about hospital food, the hum of florescent lighting, and whomever may have invented those shaped cafeteria trays. Frank had found a thousand things to say to avoid communicating at all.

"N-No, please." Frank's left hand flung out and cracked against the raised rail of the bed, snapping the brown eyes open.

His mother drew a deep breath, preparing for the aimless, anxious wandering of vision that seemed to accompany these jarring arousals from sleep, but instead an absolutely focused gaze locked hers. "Frank?"

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, sorting out terrors only he could see.

"Frank? Honey? You ok?"

He seemed to be actually considering the question in contrast to his usual automatic reassurance, and it startled her.

"Dreaming about Ranei?" She didn't especially expect the question to be answered. It hadn't been the previous thousand times.

"No... Not the way you mean... Yes." Frank squeezed his eyes closed again, but the pained expression wasn't remotely reminiscent of sleep. "Joe. S-something's wrong with Joe."

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 _I can do this... just a few snarky little comments to see if it works... too few and he'll ignore me... too many and I may end up dead... then again... I want out..._

"So you get a free monkey with that safari get-up or do you have to be the brains of banana republic-ville all by yourself?"

"Shut up and work."

"Yeah, yeah ok." Chet lugged another stone up to the wall, then stooped to dip out mortar with his wooden trowel. He cracked his back as he straightened up to spread it, then bent again to lift the rough hewn block. _Don't chicken out now..._

"Course, some of us can work and talk at the same time." Chet met the other American's eyes for a brief moment, mustering every ounce of nerve he had to produce a cheeky grin.

A grin the other man promptly smacked off his face. "I said work!"

Chet scratched raw fingers through his matted beard before making a leisurely turn for another stone. "I know that, I can hear and work at the same time, too. It's a mental feat you may not be familiar with."

"What... has... gotten... into... you... boy?..." Each word of the inquiry was punctuated by a thump of the ever present bamboo pole across his already abused shoulders.

Chet had dropped to his knees by the last one, waiting it out with his teeth clamped onto his lower lip. The strikes hurt, but he hadn't been hit hard enough to do him any permanent damage. He didn't think the jungle dressed man was allowed to, actually, as the cane could have inflicted far worse. He'd seen evidence enough of that when one of the other prisoners had bitten a soldier. Two of the guards had beaten the man to death with a pole very like this one by the barracks that night, with Chet and the others serving as a reluctant audience. He could still hear it.

Ninety five percent of his brain insisted the next thing to do was grovel and beg while offering every form of apology he could possibly concoct, but the other five percent won out. "You were gone two days, Rumplestiltskin, guess I got bored."

"I told you not to call me that anymore, boy." He tapped the cane against the heel of his hand, apparently considering a more forceful demonstration.

"You were away so long, I forgot. Your words aren't that memorable." Chet shoved the next block in place, outwardly regaining a degree of feigned swagger, inwardly terrified he'd pushed it too far.

The bamboo hovered in the air at the apex of a wide arc guaranteed to split skin and possibly break bones when it veered and slammed into the wall instead. "I see. Then perhaps it would be helpful if we spent a bit more time together to review my preferences. Don't plan on going to bed tonight, you'll be pulling supply crew duty again."

Chet nodded. "Oh, yes sir, wouldn't miss it."

 _So, I was right. I can goad my way out of spending the night in the huts any time I need to. Unfortunately, it's going to cost me thirty eight straight hours of work to have proven it... Now if I can make myself stop shaking..._

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"Sweetie, I really think it's for the best." Jacob Shaw squatted down, trying to keep his knee off the muddy earth and drape an arm around his daughter at the same time. He'd been calling her friends for half the day before realizing where he'd find her.

Callie nodded, but she didn't make any effort to move. She was sitting flat on the wet ground, as oblivious to the dampness there as she was to the drizzle tapping at her shoulders. Both palms and her forehead rested against the cold granite in front of her, her fingers long since numb from tracing the letters there.

 _Franklin Isaac Hardy_

 _Beloved Son and Brother_

 _November 14, 1991 - May 10, 2010_

With no way to enter the Hardys' home again, she somehow felt closer to Frank here than anywhere else, even knowing the coffin below her held nothing. The relief she'd felt when Joe told her Frank was alive was still there, sustaining a bit of sanity, but the week and half since then had allowed apprehension to creep back in. How long until she could see him? Touch him? Would he be ok when she did? Had he had his surgeries yet? Did he miss her? In the middle of the night when his absence was most keen, the questions took a darker turn. Would she see him again at all?

Joe had said he thought Frank would be ok. He wouldn't have left if there was any doubt, right? But should she really trust the judgment of someone that willing caught a flight back into one of the worst experiences of his life? Heck, she was almost as worried about Joe as Frank. A situation that hadn't been improved a lot by spending the day with a very anxious Vanessa. The taller girl had walked a trench into her bedroom floor.

"Callie? Are you still in there, hon?"

"What?" She dropped her hands to her lap, noting the vaguely blue tips. Even this far into the spring, sitting an hour or two in the rain had chilled her through. "Oh, sorry Daddy. I'm coming."

Mr. Shaw helped her up, brushing dripping blonde strands off her forehead before bundling her into the waiting car. As soon as he and his wife could get her thawed out, the Shaws were heading to Jekyll Island for two weeks. Nothing in life made his daughter happier than burrowing her toes into warm sand, and this time of year the Georgia beach was far more apt to offer that opportunity than Bayport. Well, Frank Hardy might have made her happier, he supposed, but now they'd never know.

He and Mrs. Shaw had talked the trip over days before, quietly making arrangements with his job and Callie's teachers. Her high school graduation was only slightly over a month away, but she had excellent grades, and in light of the circumstances the school had no problem with the travel arrangement as long as she returned to take final exams.

She'd been so excited about the upcoming commencement events mere weeks ago, giggling over prom committee and teasing Frank that she intended to give him a run for his money on those exams, maybe beat him out at last the moment as valedictorian. She hadn't seriously had much of a chance at that unless he truly flubbed a test, but she was the only class member with a shot at all. Her father didn't think she'd realized yet that she'd won the honor by default now. Not that she'd want it.

"Do we have to go?" She'd been silent so long that her question startled him.

"Yes, I think so. You're so sad, Cal, and we're concerned about you."

Callie couldn't tell him that her melancholy mood was composed of equal parts loneliness and anxiety, not grief, so she nodded again, hoping Frank wouldn't need her somehow while she was gone.

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"Give me your arm."

 _Yeeeaaahhhh, I'll do that, 'cause I forgot the spectacular remodeling job you clowns did on Frank's arm..._ Joe swallowed hard before he answered, the barrel of the gun at his neck pressing into his Adam's apple. "Umm, let's go with 'no for two hundred' on that one, Alex."

"As impertinent as your sibling was, I see. Are all American children so unable to follow basic instructions from their elders? A highly frustrating predicament for your parents, I would assume." Clipboard turned to his aide as he holstered his pistol, a thin smile splitting the sneer of his sun leathered face. "You can handle this, I trust? I find him quite tiresome."

His assistant nodded absently while his superior pivoted and left the room, attention still centered on the captured youth in front of him. "Arm. Now."

"Yeah, see... same request, so, same answer. No."

The uniformed clerk Joe had so unceremoniously tossed to the floor fifteen minutes earlier turned to his larger cohorts, gesturing at the closest one. "Terus dia masih."

The camouflage clad hulk slipped behind the ladder back chair and knelt, one tree limb of a forearm encompassing Joe's chest and right arm as well as the wooden rungs.

"I don't do bear hugs on a first date, you know. Come to think of it, I don't do them with an actual big hairy bears, either." Joe had to force the words out, the strength of the embrace crushing the air from his chest. He knew Frank would have been glaring at him to staunch the flow of wisecracks, but right now, they were all the defense he had.

The absence of Clipboard's gun below his chin was welcome, but he couldn't call the situation exactly comfortable. It got less so when another of the half dozen armed soldiers grabbed his left wrist, turning his palm up and holding the limb straight out. "Hey, watch it."

The aide ignored him, probing at the crook of the up turned elbow. Finding a spot that suited him, he pulled a syringe from his pocket and uncapped it with his teeth.

"Fun party and all that guys, but I'll pass on the recreational pharmaceuticals, thanks." _This is not good. Not, not, not good..._

"Tutup mulut."

The man behind Joe shifted slightly, allowing him to plaster an overgrown paw across Joe's mouth.

 _Fine, I can take a hint..._ Joe managed to tip his head enough to see the needle, but there wasn't any prayer of avoiding it. The metal pierced his clammy skin, a tiny drop of blood marking its entrance. His apprehension level went up as the pale amber fluid in the cylinder went down, emptying into the immobile limb. Before the tip even withdrew from his elbow, flame licked its way up the pathways of his veins. _Wow, what is that stuff? All the joy of boiling someone in oil without the annoying mess..._

"Get up."

The command seemed to come from somewhere outside the collapsing tunnel that suddenly comprised Joe's world. A few seconds ago he had been at least peripherally aware of sunlight streaming through the window to warm the side of his face, the sounds of the street below, but the room was dulling into deep sepia tones that wavered in a sickeningly unpredictable fashion, swimming in and out amongst the oppressive roar in his ears. Even the strange hands tugging him onto feet that couldn't quite grip the floor felt ethereal, far less substantial than the searing pain that gnawed into every muscle and bone.

Some of the words that pierced into that honey-thick fog must have been intended for him, the accented sounds plausibly English among the unfamiliar Indonesian, but Joe couldn't comprehend them fully. No, perhaps someone else was the intended recipient of at least part of the conversation.

 _...hold him up more... ...no sense dragging him..._

 _...you hold him up... ...kid's blanged heavy..._

 _...don't see why we can't handle this right here..._

 _...too messy... ...and blondie sticks out like a sore thumb..._

 _...kita hanya akan membunuhnya pula..._

 _...crap, kid, get your feet under you... ...I'm not a bloody pack mule..._

 _...man, he looks like his mother..._

 _...put that away... ...he's not going anywhere..._

 _...you said I could shoot him..._

 _...and you can... ...but not yet..._

 _...stop puking Hardy this is my truck..._

 _...worry about your truck later..._

 _...Dia muntah pada saya dan saya mengiris perutnya mana dia berdiri..._

 _...don't let him choke..._

 _...who cares..._

 _...you will if he dies before we meet Rao... ...remember the last time you made him angry..._

 _...aww, crud... ...do you see what he just did to my truck_...

Joe struggled to focus on the overheard phrases, but it was pointless. The only things he could discern for sure were a slight change in the undulating light that he thought meant he was now outside, a click that even his befuddled mind recognized as the cocking of gun, and then a horrible gagging breathlessness that emanated out from his navel in agonizing, choking waves. Finally, everything went dark.  
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to be continued...


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Ok, from the top, parts of the middle of this chapter start to go badly for Joe, and the next few chapters contain a line or two that are a bit, um, icky. Not as badly as Coming of Age went for Frank, at least. It just seemed to fit with the jungle and the personalities of Shuman, Rao, and Clippy. They're not nice souls, and they won't seem to go away, alas. My muse really should associate with a better caliber of people. Many thanks to Cherylann and Paulina Ann; you're keeping me moving along on the posting.

 **CHAPTER 13**

Fenton scratched an gritty hand through his hair, watching the coastline of Ranei slip away. Less than twenty four hours ago, he'd sworn he wasn't leaving the island without his son, and yet here he was, sailing away on a cramped fishing boat, nestled on the deck between splintered crates that reeked of last week's catch. He'd left Connor Moore's home after slinging his files and some clothes into Joe's suitcase, barely restraining himself from ringing in for round two with the man. It had taken scarcely an hour to conclude that he trusted no one on the island, and never should have, but it required the remainder of the day to find a captain more interested in American money than the local army.

Not that he had any intention of heeding the inane suggestion to go home to Laura until he could bring Joe with him. There weren't that many things the detective feared, but at the moment he was faced with two of them, losing Joe, and facing his wife if he did. Determined to avoid both, he didn't want his aquatic hitchhiking to take him any further than the boating equivalent of around the corner. The last week of poring over shipping charts might have earned him a stiff neck, but it also left with him with a more than casual knowledge of the local coast. Mixing that knowledge with a dollop of the ships Joe had centered in on and a sprinkling of Connor's panicked conjectures, and voila . . . Fenton still might not make much of a chef, but he had a clear idea of where he wanted to go. He just didn't know how to get there. Step one, though, was to escape the capitol, he was sure of that, and so here he was, impersonating a especially large fish.

The capitol of Ranei spooned around a horseshoe bay, the slopes of the city providing spectacular views of the turquoise waters. The glaring difference between this trip and his first visit to the island nation disappeared if you looked out over the sea. He remembered lounging on the hotel veranda with Laura before the rebellion, admiring the crystal water and confectionary white sand as the boys surfed. The city then mirrored the natural palette, the pale whites and tans of the buildings matching the beaches and cliffs while the scattered green islands of jungle vegetation blended seamlessly into the waters. Now, the city boasted only a few unscathed structures, speckled amidst blackened palms, burned out cars, and gray heaps of rubble and soot. The ocean, though, remained unalterably serene, mocking the islanders' ability to truly influence what happened here. The waves still crashed, jewel toned birds still screeched overhead, vines still wound their way through the forest in riotous over-abundance. Something about the scene shouted that war or no, peaceful populace or every human life wiped from the island, the basic rhythm here wouldn't be changed. Couldn't be changed.

Fenton shook his head, trying to dislodge the melancholy that had apparently taken up residence. He'd intentionally suppressed his anger, but that left far too much time for his sleep deprived mind to wander to his sons. Assuming he still had two. The moment that thought hit it had launched his current mood and now it wouldn't go. There hadn't been any way to contact Laura and Frank since he departed Bayport, leaving him carefully nurturing a belief that they were fine. Even if the ploy to hide Frank had succeeded, his eldest son had still undergone two additional surgeries since he'd seen him last. Fenton couldn't permit himself to consider that perhaps they hadn't gone well or worse that anyone might be aware of the deception. No, he needed every scrap of energy focused on Joe. He would find his son in time. There wasn't any other option.

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"Jooeeeey, waaakkke uu-uup."

The soft sing songy voice was right beside his ear, barely whispered but somehow clanging like a freight train battering its way through his skull. _When I do manage to wake up, you are so dead, Frank. There is no way we are late enough for school to justify that... that... that whatever it is you're doing... Think I'm too sick to go, actually... huh... head hurts..._

"Joeeeeey..."

 _For crying out loud... uh..._

"Joe Hardy, I told you to wake your lazy butt up!"

Tight fingers wound in his hair, jerking his head up from the floor.

 _That's definitely not Frank._ Wood planks rolled under his stomach as Joe blinked his matted lashes open, the gently pitching deck of a ship refusing to come into focus. Eventually it coalesced into something recognizable, weather-grayed boards, an assortment of boots, and a kneeling man he couldn't identify. He managed to tilt his head slightly, confirming the boots had owners. Laying on his stomach with what felt like a foot heavily planted in his back, Joe couldn't see any higher than their knees, but somehow he didn't think they were the welcoming committee.

"You awake now, kid?" The man dipped his face a little lower, waiting until the blood shot sapphire eyes wandered closer to his own. Satisfied his young captive was now paying attention, he uncurled his hand, abruptly releasing the blonde waves. He laughed as Joe's cheekbone hit the decking and bounced once. "Get yourself together, we're going ashore in ten minutes."

 _Get yourself together... heard that before... I tried Mr. Morton, really did... was pulling it off pretty well there for awhile... I'm sorry, Chet..._ The weight on Joe's back subsided and he saw all but one pair of the boots retreat. When he spoke the rasp of his own voice surprised him. "Ashore where?"

"You aren't going to be around long enough to care, Hardy."

The snappy comebacks of a day earlier were nowhere to be found as Joe fought to piece his memory together. Every inch of him ached, surely there was an explanation for that? He remembered the office building, the infuriatingly smug look on Clipboard's face, and then everything got hazy. Before he could ponder any further, his stomach rebelled. Joe hastily pushed himself up on stiff elbows and knees, helpless to stop an endless round of retching. _Oh yeah, that's what happened next..._

"Knock it off, you're making a damn mess."

Joe didn't answer, too preoccupied with gasping for air to bother. The dry heaves finally ceased and he let his forehead loll against the floor, panting. He hadn't noticed the thick rusted chain wrapped in layers around his wrists until he tried to wipe his mouth. His hands wouldn't move, but he couldn't tell if they were attached to anything or simply weighed down. It didn't much matter, right now he couldn't lift a teacup. The air problem returned with a vengeance, his brain too sluggish to register the heavy black boot flying at his side until after the kick flopped him onto his back. _You didn't have to do that...oh, owww... owww... really didn't... I feel like a flipped over turtle... wonder if turtles get cracked ribs... yeah, probably right before they die..._

Unable to do anything else, he listened to the familiar sounds of a boat being tied up at dock intermingled with snatches of a conversation he couldn't understand. He hadn't had much opportunity to talk to Frank about what had happened to him as a prisoner of the rebel militia, but that was one thing that they had discussed, albeit briefly. The utter frustration of the language barrier, of having no way to prepare for whatever was coming. _Least they're not asking me anything... they asked Frank questions he couldn't understand and then beat him when he couldn't answer... I should have found you sooner, Frank... should have found Chet... I'm sorry..._

"We're here, get up."

Now that voice Joe could understand. Definitely American, probably Midwest by the accent. It was the same voice he'd heard hustling him into the truck yesterday. Yesterday? He blanched when he realized it could have been longer. There was no way to know.

"Are you deaf? Get up." Another swift kick in the stomach punctuated the question.

"Yeah, ok." Joe feebly responded as soon as he could pull in a breath. There didn't seem to be an abundance of alternatives. He rocked back onto his knees, kneeling for a mere second before vertigo claimed him and he toppled back to his side. With his hands lashed together nearly to up to his elbows, there wasn't any good way to catch himself. A second and third attempt didn't go any better. "I can't."

"What did you say?"

Joe grounded his teeth together in frustration, hating the useless rubber that seemed to have replaced his legs. Hating being helpless more. "I said, I can't."

A peal of laughter wholly inappropriate to the situation took a moment to subside. "Can't get your feet to work, kid? I've always loved this particular little poison; the muscle side effects are a real treat. What did you call it, recreational pharmaceuticals? Good a name as any, I suppose, it's amusing me, after all. Most of the time it wears off, sometimes it doesn't. Won't matter in your case."

"Ayo di sini dan majukan puteri, kelihatannya dia tidak bisa berjalan."

A pair of the soldiers broke off from their tasks and approached Joe, one slipping his hands beneath Joe's arms from behind and hauling him to his feet. The other man promptly wrapped huge arms around the youth's waist and hefted him over a shoulder before starting down the gangplank.

 _Bear hug Neanderthal man from the office... Greaaat..._ Joe struggled to track the wavering, upside down view as black sand beach and palms gave way to dripping bamboo jungle, but ultimately it was the muscle rippled back bouncing against his nose that captured his attention. _Crud, he's huge..._

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"You're doing great, Frank, one more step."

"That's what you s-said last time, remember?" Frank shot the therapist an obviously faked dirty look, but made it the three steps to the end of the gym.

"Yeah, but this time I meant it." She unclipped the support line from the leather belt around his waist and patted the raised treatment platform beside her, pleasantly surprised when her patient laid down without a protest. "Tired?"

"A little." He swiped at his damp forehead with his good hand, ignoring the pull in his hamstrings as she repeatedly pulled one knee up to his chest. "More sleepy, I think."

"Now that's something I'd like to know about." A new voice sounded from the corner and quickly traversed the therapy department.

Both Frank and his physical therapist turned to find Dr. Wilkins staring at the pair of them. "Hi, doc."

"Hi. Karen, can you give us minute?"

"Not a problem." Tugging the heavy red braid over her shoulder out of habit, she retreated to the white counter and red chairs that rimmed one wall of the room, pulling up her progress notes on the monitor there. She idly tapped her foot against a yellow bin full of various sized green and blue balls as she started to work.

Frank watched her all the way there, then glanced around at the primary colored mats that carpeted the floor and treatment areas before returning his attention to the surgeon. Sometimes in here he felt like he was intruding on a reprise of Romper Room - or a miniature version of Barnum and Bailey. The construction cone orange walls did little to dispel the thought.

"So, how come I have to traipse all the way down here to find you, Frank? I don't think you've spent ten minutes in your room during the last three days. It's obvious you're tired, and your mother asked me about giving you something to help you sleep - without telling you. What's up?" Wilkins sat on the mat's edge, content to wait for an answer.

"You guys have lousy beds. You s-steal those mattresses from the Spanish in-quisition?" Frank smiled slightly, hoping to blow the conversation off. Didn't look like it was going to work that way. Resigned, he gave half a shrug and grunted his way to sitting up. "I f-figured as long as I couldn't sleep, I might as well make use of my time. Karen didn't s-seem to mind."

"She doesn't as long as you follow the gym rules. As a matter of fact, you've made about ten days worth of progress in the last four, but that doesn't explain the sleeping." He ran a hand over the silver beard, waiting again.

 _Not like I can tell him I don't have time to sleep, not that I could anyway... Whatever's going on with Joe, there's no way I can help him sulking around in a hospital... I have to be on my feet..._ "I really don't s-sleep well away from home."

"And where's that?"

Frank shook his head, the conversational smile fading. "You know I can't answer that."

"Sooner or later you're going to have to talk to somebody, Frank, those nightmares of yours are becoming a hospital legend." The scrub clad surgeon shifted, catching sight of something behind the toffee brown eyes. "I'm not a bad ear..."

"Thanks, but I'm f-fine. I just need to get out of the hospital. It's been a while." The older Hardy hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt.

Wilkins let out a loud sigh and eased Frank's arm from its sling, resuming some stretching exercises. "Ok. I know better, but ok. That's not what I came to tell you, though."

"No?" Frank carefully schooled his features before he spoke. If his face gave away how much moving that shoulder still hurt, he'd never get out of here.

"No. You really have gotten further along with therapy than I expected this week, so there's not a lot more I can do for you. You remember us talking about a rehab hospital?"

Frank nodded, but he didn't look happy about it. "You really think I need that? A few more days here and m-maybe I could be discharged instead?" He knew there was a plan in place for where to stay if he was released from the medical center before his father and brother came home. He didn't know the details yet, but wherever it was, it was likely to be easier to slip away from there than from a rehab hospital. He had to get to Joe.

"Afraid that won't work. It will take until tomorrow to finalize the paperwork, but then you're headed for Health South. It's a smaller hospital that does rehabilitation after major injuries, strokes, prolonged illness; that sort of thing. They have a department that's specifically aimed at younger patients and athletes. The goal of a regular hospital therapy department, even a good one like ours, is to make someone functional. Get out of your bed, dress yourself, walk down the hall alone. That's fine in certain situations, but how long are you going to be satisfied with that level of ability?" The doctor paused, knowing the dark haired youth had no intention of settling for that. "I know you don't think so, Frank, and you've been doing great, but you need another three or four weeks of inpatient therapy. Health South can do that. We can't."

The dark haired youth didn't hide his disappointment very well. "Where's this p-place?"

"There's a bunch of them actually, but the arrangements for you were in place before you were ever admitted here. You're headed for Princeton, WV."

"Can't s-say that I've ever been there." _And can't say that I'm going there now..._

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 _to be continued..._


	15. Chapter 15

**.**

 **.**

 **CHAPTER 14**

"What did you tell him?" Marissa leaned closer, brushing a soft kiss across Connor's lips, smirking when he flinched. Fenton had done a lovely job decorating her husband's face in shades of purple and blue.

Connor closed his eyes, unable to do anything to stop her. Some part of him didn't want to stop her, didn't believe he could possibly be in this situation again. It hadn't always been this way. Certainly not seventeen years ago when he'd decided his island vacation with the pretty brunette ought to be a permanent arrangement. The memory lingered and he returned the kiss, reality crashing in only when he tried to raise a hand to her face. The rope looping it to the chair tended to ruin that. "I didn't tell him anything, I swear."

Another kiss. "I don't believe you, love." She'd returned home the evening before to find her husband nervously shoving bags into his car. Thankful her father had insisted she keep her own gun, she'd had little trouble inspiring him to return inside. Well, ok, maybe a smidge of trouble, but nothing a few stitches couldn't fix. "You can't be on both sides, you know that."

"I'm not on a side-"

Whatever else he meant to say was lost in the crack of a slap followed by an incongruent rumbling purr of a reply. "And that's the problem, darling. You said you loved me, said you'd help me, and yet you're not on my side. I'm your wife. What happened to you, hmm?" She raked a fingernail down his face.

"What happened to me? I'm not the one that joined a revolution, Marissa." He leaned backward as she closed in on him again, but she was back to kisses, both palms now flat against his chest as she sat in his lap. "One more try love. What did you tell Fenton Hardy?"

"I didn't tell him anything, honest. He never even came back here yesterday!"

"Oh, I think he did. Unless you suddenly fell down the stairs onto your lip?" She nudged his collar aside with her nose as she kissed her way down, breath hot against the hollow of his throat. "Daddy was so disappointed when he got here last night and found that interloper gone. You knew we were going to kill him last night and you warned him. Admit it."

"No, uhh, I didn't. I swear."

"That's a nasty habit, all that swearing, and a bit repetitive, too. You've never been a good liar, love, are you sure you don't have anything else to tell me?"

"N-no, nothing."

She smiled at him, the smile that had won him over years ago, and raised a hand to grasp his chin, tilting his head up as she stood. "Very well then, darling. Remember I love you." She kissed him once more, on the forehead, and ruffled a hand through his hair before retreating to the foyer door.

"He doesn't have anything he wants to say." She addressed her father as he stepped out of the corner shadow.

Mejki nodded and entered the room as his daughter left, staring at his son-in-law. He'd really hoped the, ah, discussion they'd had at the rebel encampment almost two months ago would have sunk in better than this. Oh well.

Marissa leaned against the railing of the veranda, looking out over the water from the same spot where Joe had watched the moonlight on the sea two nights before. The midday sparkle wasn't quite the same, but still mesmerizing in its own way. A single shot sounded from within the house, dragging her attention backward. She peered over her shoulder, taking in her father's squared stance and Connor's blood splattered shirt, resisting the temptation to look any higher. Unsurprised, she shrugged and turned back to the water, tossing a small golden band into the waves.

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Joe landed on the spongy ground with a grunt, rolling to his side to free his nose from the rotten leaf litter of the jungle.

"Mr. Hardy, I hardly think that is an acceptable position for introductions. Sit up like a proper gentleman."

 _Great, Clipboard beat me here._ Not especially eager to get kicked again, Joe made the effort and finally got himself upright, his hands resting heavily on his knees. "Introductions? We've met. Unfortunately."

"And I thought your brother daft. I did not mean me, idiot child." Clipboard gestured at two massive men behind him. "This is Cel, who was kind enough to transport you from the ship when you failed to walk here, and I believe you will recall Rao from your prior visit."

An image of the behemoth dragging Frank across a hotel lobby at gunpoint before kicking his legs out from under him and shoving a burlap hood over his face swirled around in Joe's head, threatening to set him heaving again. Clipboard had ordered it all, but this was the man that had backhanded his mother, that had beaten Frank until Joe couldn't find an unmarked inch of skin, simply because it amused him. Rage boiled up from somewhere and drew the younger Hardy to his feet to lunge at the hulking form. "Yeah, I remember him all right."

The hissed words and two handed swing at the giant took all the energy Joe could muster. Rao easily deflected the overbalanced blow, grabbing the teenager and spinning him around. Joe found himself with his spine plastered into Rao's chest, held fast while the larger man propped his chin on the top of Joe's head.

"Really, Joseph, I thought we discussed your manners yesterday. Was there not some academy your father might have employed that would have had a meager hope of instructing you? Then again, I suspect their admissions process would be a bit more discriminating than that. Be still, we are almost done here. The other associate to my left you have met informally. Allow me to present Mr. Nicholas Shuman."

Joe swiveled his gaze to the American from the boat. "So you're Shuman. My mother mentioned you."

"I would imagine she did. Pretty lady, your mom." Nicholas winked at Joe, aware of exactly how the teen would interpret that. "It's a shame she wouldn't go to that embassy dinner with me. Would have been easier. You favor her, don't you, kid? First thing I noticed yesterday."

"I do not believe this idle chatter will be of benefit, Nicholas." The rebel colonel gestured at the remainder of the circle of soldiers. "The other names need not trouble your limited thought processes, such as they are, young man. I merely wanted everyone to familiarize themselves with your appearance in the unlikely event you manage to wander off. It would be an unpardonable oversight on our part to fail to assist you in finding your way back to appropriate lodging. The local flora and fauna can be, shall we say, unforgiving. That should conclude our greetings, although I might mention that one of your companions has seen fit to grace Mr. Shuman with a nickname much as you did for me. Perhaps it is a tradition of your homeland of which I am not aware? How is it that Joseph's friend addresses you, Nicholas? Rumplestiltskin, I believe?"

The only word of all that to catch Joe's ear was friend. His knees buckled another notch, slumping back against Rao. "Friend?"

"Well of course, Mr. Hardy. You have travelled so far on a quest for young Mr. Morton that it would be unconscionable to disappoint you at this late date. Chet is here. He has been our guest since the second day of our glorious undertaking, but I fear he is too busy at present to greet you properly."

"If you've hurt him..." Joe twisted his shoulders, trying to break free.

"If I've hurt him? How dreadfully trite a statement; I rather expected more originality, even from you. Perhaps your mind is still befuddled from yesterday's dosing. I have not had the occasion to allow Rao to indulge himself with Mr. Morton as he did with your sibling, if that is the nature of your inquiry. He has required a certain amount of motivational encouragement, I will concede, but today he is merely working. Our guests are expected to participate in improving the structure of our outpost in return for their lodging accommodations. Nicholas, you spoke with Chet earlier today, did you not? How does young Master Morton fare today?"

"Chet's needing a little more, umm, motivation that usual today, Colonel. He said he missed me the last few days, forgot how to act. Don't worry, his backside and I had a little friendly discussion and he's back on track now. Going to work the night for me, too, come to think about it."

"Excellent. See, Joseph, my staff is attending to Chet's education. You have no reason to fret on his behalf." Clipboard paused, pretending to be thoughtful, then turned to Nicholas. "Although since Joseph will be joining us after we dine this evening, I must insist that you permit Chet a brief respite to attend our assembly. He can exorcize the errors of his soul after that."

"Sure, no problem. Chet will get a kick out of a little after dinner theater; we wouldn't want to deprive him." Nicholas walked away with a swat at Joe, heading for the beach.

"I have some correspondence I must attend to before this evening, Joseph, and I fear teenagers of your cultural background lack the patience to sit politely without disrupting others. Fortunately, Rao was kind enough to arrange a solution to this minor dilemma. You may wait there." He pointed at closely woven rattan box that didn't look like it had any hope of accommodating the tall youth. "Now I have the utmost faith that Rao will squeeze you in there regardless of your cooperation level, but I have no desire to over tax my trusted companions."

Clipboard ducked inside the squat stone building behind him and emerged with a familiar looking amber syringe.

Joe squirmed as far away as he could in the sweaty embrace, but it was too late. Clipboard held his head firmly.

"It is truly a shame we do not have a traditional Raneian cell to hold you or Chester, but we have not yet had the opportunity to erect them. A marvel of ancient construction, simple, but markedly effective. A day or two there and I find almost every prisoner is suddenly quite chatty. Perhaps your brother was able to share his experiences in one with you? He was far more durable than I had anticipated, although not in the end I gather. Rao feels horribly slighted that Frank did not have courtesy to die here, particularly as he ultimately succumbed anyway." The colonel had been tapping away at the cylinder in his hand and flicking a bluish vein in Joe's neck as he spoke.

"I am inclined to think a half dose will be adequate to enforce your compliance until dusk. Unless you are planning to be difficult, Joseph? Do you require the entire contents?"

Joe was determined not to appear afraid in front of this man, but the last twenty four hours had given him an awful firsthand knowledge of the drug in that needle. He still hadn't recovered from the first dose, and whether he wanted to admit it or not, the stuff scared the crap out of him.

"Well? You are expected to answer when spoken to, Joseph. Do you need the whole dosage to behave?"

"No." His voice cracked a little, nearly inaudible, eliciting a smile from all his captors. He drew a breath a tried again, managing to look the colonel directly in the eye. This time his voice was perfectly steady. "No, I don't."

"Not so difficult to answer properly and concisely, is it?"

A pinprick pierced his neck, rapidly followed by the burning, all encompassing pain. He heard someone gagging again _. Is that me? God, I think that's me..._

He felt someone lower him to sit on the ground, but the now familiar blurring of vision made it impossible to determine who. The chain uncoiled from his hands and then his crusted t-shirt was yanked over his head, rapidly followed by the feel of his shorts sliding down over his knees. A disjointed pang of relief registered when his boxers stayed put, but he didn't have time to ponder that before a half dozen hands picked him up again, folding his legs to his chest. He ended up dumped into the hurriedly opened box, sitting upright with his back against one wall of the cube while his bent knees draped over the opposite side. Rao grabbed one ankle at a time, maneuvering the leg down into the tight space until the sole of each of Joe's feet rested on the floor, the front of his thighs pressed into protesting bruised ribs.

A hand behind him grabbed his hair again, shoving his head between his knees. Even so, the woven lid wouldn't quite close. The hand slid out of the slight gap and a sudden weight compressed him further, violently forcing his shoulders between his legs to coil him into a ball. When the pain radiating from his neck finally quit spiking into his toes, he figured out what happened. _Rao jumped on the box..._

Joe waited almost eagerly for the blackness of the day before to return, but it eluded him, the smaller dose of poison leaving him on the blurred edge of awareness. He could process the rough wood pressing in on every side of his body, his inability to move more than a finger in the confining space, and the shifting slivers of sunlight when the box rolled a quarter turn, his spine now the lowest point. He sucked in air through a flared nose as his own mass restricted his chest, lacking even the room to open his jaw. Some portion of his mind noted that it was a good thing he hadn't eaten in over a day, but he no longer possessed the clarity to figure out why.

The compact cage moved, a back and forth sway that told Joe he was being carried, and then settled back to the earth in dim area nearby. Mud oozed in through the slats, encasing Joe's back and the fringe of hair at his bowed neck, while a skim of putrid water lapped higher at his sides.

Panic almost set in before his prison stopped sinking, liquefied muck teasing its way into his ears. Left to its own devices, his brain would have achieved a better degree of calm, would have remembered the extensive but shallow puddles of water stretching across the entrance to the dense rainforest. Drugged to the gills, however, he accomplished none of that.

The sun had dipped well into the trees before he began to formulate any thought beyond let me out, you have let me out, and even then that mantra dominated.

 _Let me out... can't breathe in here... let me out... buzzing?... mosquitoes... let me out... please let me out... can't breathe... Frank will get me out... just breathe... no, he won't... coffin... he's dead... let me out... death wasn't real... let me out... what's that?... slimy... let me out... slithery... face... leg... belly... let me out, I can't breathe in here... snakes? crap... no, too small, too many spots... let me out... oh, no, no, No, NO... , rainforest... in mud... leeches!... get 'em off me!..._ _ **Fraaank, get 'em**_ _ **off!**_ _..._

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 _to be continued..._


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Thank you so much to CHerylann, EvergreenDreamweaver, Paulina Ann, and ErinJordan. I appreciate Cherylann's comment that I'm not afraid 'to go there' although in fact, I always am. I just go anyway. That's the great joy of writing for me, to let loose all those aspects of thought that I almost don't have the nerve to think much less say and to have people willing to share that experience along with me is humbling. Sincerely, my thanks.

 **CHAPTER 15**

The soft crunching of cinder beneath his feet released a trace smell of smoke to intermingle with the stench of rotten fish permanently seared into his nostrils. It was nearly dark now, water dripping off the overhanging fern fronds to add to the stickiness of his shirt; thick, wet air filling his lungs like honey. At a louder snap the detective froze, listening for any footfalls other than his own. Silence.

The tiny cove where he'd swum ashore was hours in the past as he cautiously resumed his trek. His back ached from winding through dense trees that snatched at him, the twigs scratching at his face as he passed, the larger logs intermittently tripping him in his haste, but now that he was almost at his destination he slowed, unwilling to risk detection.

The grey dusk shrouded the even greyer remnants of buildings, stones tumbled randomly amongst charred timbers and the occasional destroyed vehicle. A darker rectangular patch marred the earth to one side, the gravestones that weren't there somehow evident none the less.

Fenton sped up again to skirt the turned soil, acutely aware of the lack of cover, before he reached a larger construction slab tilted off the ground. Although the dim light made it hard to tell, the upper surface seemed to be an interior wall that had collapsed outward, unable to completely reach the ground after landing on what might have been a jeep once. Whatever the twisted hulk had been, at present it provided a much needed hiding place. Weary and increasingly worried, he crawled under the masonry to wait.

Hiding under the cramped rubble lean-to brought his last exit from the island of Ranei back in unfortunate mental clarity, his calf vaguely beginning to ache at the memory.

#

 _A shot clipping a chunk of marble loose over his head snapped him back to alertness. The smoky sky was now darkened with heavy clouds as well, the rumble of thunder joining the cacophony of warfare. He rolled left, scrambling under a slight over hang even as he drew his gun from the waistband of his shorts. A hasty observation convinced him he wasn't the intended target. Two groups of soldiers clashed in the partially collapsed hallways, the larger contingent in the pale khaki uniforms of the government guard._

 _Neither bunch faired very well, their numbers reduced by about half before the smaller rebel contingent began to give ground. The government troop took the opportunity to split up, five soldiers leaving the main faction to circle behind, unwittingly placing Fenton in their cross fire. He had wanted to seek out government personnel, but this wasn't precisely what he had in mind. Thirty feet away a granite slab had fallen, the angled surface now forming a perfect tent with the floor. He pulled back on his toes, stretching the cramped calf and hoping it would make the dash before any of the soldiers approached closely enough to spot him. Once the bullets stopped flying, then he could decide about making his whereabouts known. Sort of depended on who won._

 _That plan almost succeeded. He darted from against the wall, half standing to pitch forward in a drunken run across rain slicked tiles, then diving into a home plate slide he hadn't tried in years. His shoulders cleared the entrance to his improvised haven as his calf seared in pain._

 _It's just the stitches…I popped the stitches… it's just the stitches… Fenton knew that wasn't the case, but tentatively traced a finger down his leg, cringing at the slick wet streak that met his hand. It's not the stitches…_

" _Saya mendengar seseorang cara ini!"_

 _Fenton grasped the glock more tightly, leveling it as a soldier approached his hiding place. The rain worked at erasing the red trail staining the floor, but the yelp he'd failed to stifle had given him away. The more important question was to whom. Generic black boots came into view first, not resolving the issue._

" _Ada siapa?"_

 _The figure knelt, stopping abruptly at the sight of the gun. He repeated the question, his own firearm grasped in both hands, the barrels inches apart._

" _Anda adalah siapa?" When he didn't get an answer, he tried again. "English?"_

 _Fenton wasn't entirely sure if he meant language or nationality, and was less sure that it mattered. The uniform's distinctive khaki with the deep green shoulder patch of the government troops was far more relevant. His casual spotting of a few soldiers on their capitol tour had proven more than a happy coincidence; otherwise he might not have been able to discern the man's loyalties. "Yes. American."_

 _The man nodded. "You shouldn't be here."_

" _Kinda guessed that already. I'm willing to be somewhere else." Fenton grunted the words out, his gun hand wavering as he lowered the weapon, other hand clamped tightly around the pumping hole in his leg._

 _The soldier bit his lip, uncertain what to do with the foreigner. The bleeding man before him certainly didn't look like a supporter of the insular rebel faction, and he couldn't very well leave him here. "Give me your gun."_

 _Fenton would have asked for the same under the circumstances, and he was going to have assistance to get out of this. The squatting soldier reached for the weapon, his head ducking slightly below the rock slab. He had no chance of seeing the militia member emerging from the rubble behind them._

 _Fenton did though. The automatic weapon turning their direction peeled away years for the detective, landing him squarely in another overheated war zone, with a different gun in his hand. He wished he could claim to have made a decision to trust the young man before him and eliminate the threat to them both. In truth there was nothing so organized or noble about it. The young militia soldier dropped before he ever had the opportunity to fire, Fenton's reflex driven shot threading between the sloped stone over him and his companion's shoulder._

 _#_

The surrounding ruin was eerily similar, but this time Fenton was alone, or at least he hoped so. He'd prefer not to get shot again. There was an irony in the memory that wasn't lost on him - last time on the island he'd killed a man while desperately hoping not to, the soldier aiming at him little more than a boy. This time he had restrained himself from killing, but every inch of him had wanted to, still wanted to. He wondered if the only real reason he hadn't pummeled Connor out of existence was the he hadn't had the time.

Wrenching his thoughts away from that frightening bit of self assessment, he began replaying the origins of the coup instead. Not that he particularly cared one way or another who was responsible for the failed revolutionary attempt in the small nation, and hadn't since Frank had been forcibly taken from their hotel two months ago, but he couldn't allow himself to think about Joe. His son was still alive, he had to be, and the only way to get him back was to stay absolutely on track. A chasm of regret lurked below any contemplation of his children right now, the horrid realization that misguided loyalty to a friend had somehow taken precedence over protecting his family. The guilt down that path was overwhelming and he couldn't afford to lose himself in it. Not if he wanted Joe back.

The trouble with pondering the coup was that it didn't add up. Sure, Kiran Mejki was a high ranking official and apparently had managed to hide his involvement from President Moluki once the island's president was restored to power, but his position didn't have any direct connection to the military. Someone else at the top of that hierarchy had to be involved for so many militia soldiers to slip back into their former units with no one the wiser. Fenton had no way of knowing who that someone might be, but that unfortunately didn't change the fact that he was stuck on a hostile island and needed some help. Help he planned to acquire in this ghost town of a decimated army base.

There were only two logical islands to locate a rebel hideout of any size, and given the number of militia soldiers that had evaded capture, Fenton was certain he was searching for something large. Four miles up the coast from this army post, a narrow channel separated Ranei from one of the two possibilities. The island was unpopulated, and with no habitation directly across on the Ranei coast either, it was an ideal spot to hide. The senior Hardy was certain his son was there - if he was still anywhere.

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"W-what?" There was a sound coming from somewhere other than the roaring torrent in his ears. That much Joe was sure of. _Frank? Help me?_

"I said, keep your chin tucked... You know, never mind, Hardy. Doesn't look like you could move it if you tried." Nicholas peered into the now open lid of the rattan box that had housed Joe for the last eight and half hours. All that met his eyes was a mud crusted curve of spine framed by the scraped knob of two knees, the remainder of the teenager coiled within.

"Mr. Shuman, when I requested that you extend an invitation to Mr. Hardy to join us for the evening, I rather assumed the fact that I meant **this** evening was self evident. Are you planning to extricate him from that cage as I requested, or not?" Clipboard gazed impatiently at the Network agent turned revolutionary and then at the gathering semicircle of prisoners and soldiers surrounding them in the twilight. Torches lined the slope, the flickering light casting odd shadows across all of them.

"Of course I am, Colonel, but Rao really wedged him in here. I've yanked as hard as I can, and I may have gotten a layer of skin or two, but that's about it." Nicholas perused the tools available to him, selecting a long handled axe.

"And what do you propose to do with that?"

"You want him out, I'm getting him out." Shuman tapped the blade against the damp ground, irritated at being questioned but smart enough not to say so.

"Very well, but I would strongly prefer you not decapitate the child. Although if you must, then rearrange the crate to allow our guests a better view."

Shuman snorted, then flipped the box back over, the opening now on one side. Crouching to wriggle his fingers between Joe's thigh and bowed neck, he latched onto an ear. A tremendous tug later and the blonde head sprung free to loll out onto the earth, glazed blue eyes staring skyward.

"Uuhhhhhnnggg..." _Let me out... let me out..._

"Your eloquence continues to astound me, Joseph. " Clipboard knelt, using a thumb to pry each eyelid higher in turn. The pupils constricted slowly in the dim light, but the gaze didn't track him. Straightening, he backed up several steps. "I did not inject him with enough jatropha to be this disoriented, but perhaps dehydration has compounded the effect. Interesting. Remove him from that carton."

The blunt back of the axe head rained down on the frame, cracking the end of the rattan cage, but it remained stubbornly intact. Nine additional blows to the structure, each accompanied by incoherent pain filled grunt from Joe, and the last of the weaving fell free. Nicholas kicked the scraps aside, chuckling as he got a better look at the teen curled on the ground.

"Something amusing?" Clipboard leaned closer, a smile slowly widening across his face. "Ah, I see. Young Mr. Hardy decided to acquire some pets for his new home."

"Guess you could call it that." Nicholas inspected the darker smudges scattered in the mud clinging to Joe before stabbing at one with a stubby finger.

"Uhhgg... need it off, Frank..."

"Off? What are you jabbering about, kid? Your brother's dead, idiot, remember? You let some village girl hack him to pieces instead of getting him to a hospital. Did he figure that out before he died? Maybe he hated you, Joe, what do you think? I bet he did, whether he got to tell you or not, but you can discuss it with him in person here in a minute." Nicholas pushed Joe's face backward, shining a flashlight over the rest of him. "You're not freaked out by a few little leaches, are you? They're practically the national mascot around here. Maybe I ought to poke you back down in the mud and let them finish you off. Save Cel the trouble."

 _Frank? Dead? No, no... he's not... I didn't... but..._

 _#_

 _"When Dad asked me if I wanted offer the eulogy, I couldn't imagine doing it. And then I couldn't imagine someone else doing this for my brother. There's never been anything Frank wouldn't do for me... no matter how difficult."..._

 _#_

 _That's not real... Frank's home... right?... He's home... please... home... ...Help me... need 'em off... Frank?_

Joe gulped in fresh air, praying it would clear his head. He was certain he hadn't slept, and yet the transition from mid-morning to evening remained a jumble of confusion, agony, guilt, and panic.

Nicholas reached below his captive's chin, blood slicked hand emerging a moment later with a grotesque bloated shape. "When's the last time you ate, Hardy? Yesterday morning? Or maybe you're a breakfast skipper and it was the night before? Either way, you've got to be getting pretty hungry by now. What do you say, need a little snack? Come on kid, open up."

"What? No... no... I can't..." The faint rasp from Joe barely made it past his cracked lips. If it had been possible to shrink back even half an inch he would have, but no portion of his muscular frame seemed inclined to obey him. He clamped his jaw shut, unsure if the resurgent wave of nausea came from whatever he'd been given or the repulsive idea of swallowing the vaguely wriggling form. _I can't..._

"Sure you can." Firm fingers pinched the teen's nostrils closed.

Joe resisted the urge as long as he could, instinctively balking even though coherence remained more of a far off goal than a current achievement, but the outcome was inevitable. His mouth dropped open, gasping in a breath before the leech touched his tongue. _Don't think... anything else... can't... choke... help..._

 _"_ Nicholas! Stop your playing and bring him over here."

Disappointed, Shuman flung the foul creature onto the dirt. "Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on."

Clipboard raised an eyebrow. "My attire is scarcely your concern, Mr. Shuman. Perchance it has been too long since Rao instructed you on your position here. I can arrange to have the lesson repeated if that would be beneficial?"

The older American blanched. "Not necessary."

Grasping one of Joe's ankles, Nicholas dragged him closer to the army colonel and then slumped the teenager's body over a short bench.

Joe gasped as cracked ribs bumped over the edge of the seat, his chest flat against the wood while his legs draped off one end of the bench and his head hung down over the other, but the sharp increase in pain ignited awareness. Clipboard was talking behind him, addressing the crowd, but Joe ignored the words, resigned once he realized he couldn't stand. The colonel had promised to kill him once the camp's evening meal was over. Apparently that was now.

Nicholas lifted Joe's head once again by the convenient waves of blonde hair and Cel drew his firearm, the warm barrel pressing progressively harder into the youth's forehead.

 _I was supposed to find Chet... now no one will even find me... I'm sorry... God, Chet, I'm so sorry... your mom's right...my fault... You, Frank, Iola... I'm sorry..._

The incriminations Joe had kept at bay the last week with draconian enforcement of an insomniac work ethic slammed into him, invading inch by inch until he was back under Iola's willow tree, Clipboard's speech no longer even audible.

"Colonel Manado?" A younger soldier Nicholas didn't recognize and Joe didn't see stepped into the circle of light, petrified to interrupt his leader.

"Yes? What possible insanity inspired you to speak to me now?"

"I'm sorry sir, but... there's a wire from Minister Mejki... and..."

"And? It is generally easier for others to comprehend your sentences if you will only go to the trouble of completing them."

"Ah, yes sir. Mejki thinks you might want to, ah, keep the boy awhile. Mr. Hardy, uh, Fenton Hardy, I mean... well, Mejki couldn't find him to eliminate him. He thought you might need, um, information from the kid."

Clipboard cursed under his breath, a florid stream of words that were unmistakable regardless of language, but when he replied his usual calm facade had returned. "The idea that Joseph may be able to enlighten me on something is intriguing. Laughable, but intriguing. Still, employing Mr. Morton as bait proved effective and it is possible the same principle may be advantageous here. Very well, Mr. Hardy, a reprieve. Rao can elucidate whatever you may know about the matter in the morning."

Nicholas frowned as the senior officer stepped toward the drab concrete construction that served as their headquarters. "Where are you going?"

"Your desire to test fate this evening is impressive, Nicholas. If you must know, I suspect Joseph will provide minimal information of any merit. It will be more profitable to have additional insight into Fenton's plans, and that insight may be available from his wife."

"I spent days with the woman, Manado, even if she was here she wouldn't tell you a blasted thing."

"Intentionally, no, but Fenton may communicate with her. Time to arrange for some information gathering closer to the source."

Nicholas smirked. "You mean you want to spy on the witch."

"Crudely put, but essentially correct. However, I found Laura Hardy to be quite charming." Clipboard nodded toward Joe, noting the splayed scrabbling of his feet in the soil. "He may be able to walk again soon. Redose him and tuck him back in a crate for the night before he causes any trouble. Oh, and Nicholas, see to it that he drinks some water. I want him able to answer Rao tomorrow."

As soon as Clipboard was gone, Cel turned an angry face on Shuman, yelling with all the grace of a petulant child. "You said I was going to get to shoot him!"

"For pity's sake, is that all you can think about you big oaf?" Nicholas launched a quick kick at Joe, knocking him away from Cel's still cocked gun. "Pick someone out of the front couple of rows there and plug them if you want."

"I wanted to shoot Hardy." The bigger man loomed over the American double agent and pressed his boot into Joe's bruised chest.

"Fine, go ahead." Shuman shrugged, both palms upturned in an innocent gesture that didn't suit him. "But if you kill him, Colonel Manado will probably let Rao skin the pair of us."

Cel seemed to think that over, his admiration for Rao as his mentor warring with his fear of what the other man could do. Sudden inspiration struck, the sensation of figuring something out unfamiliar enough to make the thought evident on his usually bland face. "I wouldn't have to kill him."

"No, but the concern that I might skin you if you did is valid." Rao walked up behind Cel, pushing his protégé further away from Joe.

"Rao, I didn't hear you arrive." Nicholas didn't bother to hide his annoyance; he didn't like Clipboard's second in command.

"Of course not. I'm only heard when I want to be." The huge man dropped to his knees and drew his own gun with surprising speed, bracing it against the slightest edge of Joe's thigh and firing in a single agile maneuver that stunned Shuman.

"AAGGGHHH!... AHHH... Ahhhh... Ahh... ah..." Joe struggled to silence the scream that had torn out as the bullet tore in, his eyes locking onto Rao's in a violent return to the here and now.

"W-why'd... AHhhh... why'd you do that?" Searing heat spread from his leg to his spine as Joe managed to get the worst of the gasping breaths under control.

"I felt like it. Besides, Cel couldn't seem to make up his mind." Rao flashed a quick smile at Nicholas, then stomped away towing Cel by an ear, leaving the agent to bandage the free flowing red hole.

"Not... telling you... anything..." _Screwed up... this one real good... Frank?... I'm sorry... gah, hurts..._

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 _to be continued..._


	17. Chapter 17

**.**

 **.**

 **CHAPTER 16**

A hand closed over his, stilling his fingers on the keyboard. "You sure you want to do that?"

Frank mentally cursed and sank back against the vinyl of the wheelchair, staring at the worried face over him. "How'd you find m-me?"

"Oh sweetie, the boys in this family aren't the only ones who can do a bit of snooping." Laura clicked the delete button before leaning over the arm of the chair and kissing her son on the top of his head. She hadn't done that in years. "Let's go back to your room."

"I really need to send-"

"No, you don't." Laura heard the worry in his voice, but she couldn't let him finish his typing.

"Mom, I can't just-" His fingers strayed back toward the computer.

"Don't." There was unspoken pleading there, undermining any attempt to be authoritative.

"Joe needs-"

"Not here, Franklin Hardy." Maybe that authoritative streak was going to work out after all. The petite woman slipped behind her son and wheeled the chair out of the small office, giving Frank no option but to accompany her. "Too many people."

The lanky teen didn't say anything as she headed out into the hospital courtyard rather than the elevator back to the fourth floor, torn between frustration at not completing his task and embarrassment that his mother had somehow pulled off the adult equivalent of tossing a disobedient toddler over her shoulder. He was too big to be physically removed from what he wanted to do. Being called Franklin still made him feel like a wayward child, and at the moment he didn't appreciate it. He wasn't playing the stereo too loud or sneaking cookies before dinner. He was trying to save his brother's butt, and he didn't think there was all that long left to do it.

Laura parked Frank facing a small verdigris bench, the ivy wrapped redbud tree blooming behind it giving her a momentary start. The floral casket spray flashed through her mind, but she deliberately shoved that aside, aware her son was angry with her now, and well aware of why. She sat and watched him a while, concerned when he didn't lift his head. Nothing about the blue checked pajama pants he was wearing could possibly merit that level of study.

"Frank? Are you going to talk to me, honey?" She tipped his chin up gently with a finger. "I know you're worried about Joe; so am I, but we need to stick with what your dad planned."

"You d-don't understand."

Laura sent a silent thank you upwards that she'd heard that phrase far less often that most parents of a pair of teenage boys. "I understand that you're not used to having to rely on someone else to take care of things and the frustration of that is escalating your worries."

"It's not th-things I need to take care of dammit; IT'S JOE!" He kicked at the gravel under his toe, then slowly regained control of his temper. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell."

"I know you didn't." She did know. Frank hadn't been truly in control of himself for weeks and the mercurial transformations were disconcerting at best. Now wasn't the time to address it. "Your dad and your brother being back in Ranei terrifies me, but we have to trust that they know what they're doing and they're coming home."

"How can you d-do that? Just wait?" Frank finally met her eyes, startled by a sadness there he couldn't place.

"Because it's what all of you always expect me to do, Frank. I've had a lifetime of practice." She stood and walked several feet away, her back turned to her son while she took a sudden intense interest in a clematis vine.

Frank choked down his reply as that sunk in. "Sorry." _Is this what it's always like for her? I couldn't survive this. Not over and over again - how could I have not really understood that until just now?_ "Mom? I'm sorry."

"Yes, so you said." Laura didn't move.

There was a funny sound to her voice. _Is she that mad at me? No... no she's crying... now what do I do?_

"Not for yelling. I'm s-sorry for you having to d-do that. I'm... sorry."

She took a hasty swipe at her eyes and returned to the bench, settling a hand on her child's knee while she gathered her thoughts. "You and your brother are becoming young men that I am very proud of, so I don't want you to be sorry, Frank. I do want you to realize that this helpless feeling that disaster is thirty seconds away and you'll explode if you don't intervene this instant is something I understand very well. I made the choice to live with it years ago because I love your father more than I hate the worrying, and now that choice includes you and Joe. I won't say it isn't petrifying at times, or that I wouldn't have been relieved if you'd told me your life's ambition lie in reforming the electoral college system, but I wouldn't ask any one of you to be someone other than who you are."

Frank shifted uncomfortably, cradling his sling in his left hand. "S-so how do you live with it?"

A rueful chuckle slipped through. "Less gracefully some days than others. You want to try this conversation again?"

He nodded, still convinced he had to act to protect Joe, but having a new appreciation for his mother's perspective. "How **did** you find me?"

"I saw Karen walk through the hall. Since she wasn't in the PT department anymore, I figured your physical therapy had to be over for the day, but you didn't come back. Then Dr. Wilkins tore down the hall at a hundred miles an hour and I... I thought... I thought maybe something happened to you."

"I'm fine."'

Laura nodded, unwilling to display how frightened she'd been by the sprinting surgeon. If she had her way Frank would never know how many nights in Jakarta she'd spent awake and trembling in Fenton's arms, convinced that if she closed her eyes her son would be gone when she awoke. Even now she watched him sleep at night, just to see him breathe. "I went down to PT and the clerk there thought you might have gone to the hospital library. When I got there, I saw the light under the office door."

"Busted, huh?" Frank's gaze found his lap again. _Getting out of here made sense an hour ago. I swear it did..._

"Yes. It was easier when all I ever caught you doing was hiding corn in your napkin." Laura dabbed at another tear and hoped he didn't notice. "Who were you emailing?"

"I don't like corn." Frank considered not answering, but she deserved a response, and he couldn't lie. Not now. "Phil Cohen. He could make the a-arrangements I need."

"You're planning on finding a way to Ranei, aren't you?"

It sounded so ridiculous out loud. "Y-yes."

"Did you send anything before I got there? And don't you think Phil might have been a bit surprised to hear from you?"

"No, I didn't s-send anything." Frank muttered the rest of his answer under his breath. "And I th-thought I'd sign it J-Joe."

"Frank, I know how much you need Joe here to talk to and I know there's a lot about what happened in Ranei that you haven't told me..."

"I'm f-fine."

"No, you're not, but that's not what I'm getting at. The last few days the nightmares have been progressively worse and you're going at therapy like your behind schedule for the Olympic tryouts. Now this. What changed?"

"I told you night before last. S-something's wrong with Joe." _Please don't make me try to explain this..._

"You told me that based on a dream." Laura hesitated, treading on delicate ground. She didn't want to belittle Frank's anxiety, especially when she had the same concern, but she couldn't allow him to believe he needed to stage the great escape. "Maybe something has changed over there, maybe it hasn't. Even as close as you and your brother are, there's no way to know that."

"Yes, there is." Frank raked his fingers through his hair, the brown waves still considerably shorter than he liked. "It's n-not something I can put into words, but I can tell when Joe's hurt. I think he can for m-me, too. May not make sense, but it's still there." _I sound certifiable..._

Laura stalled even longer this time, preemptively discarding a dozen phrases. "I can't answer to that, Frank, and I'm not going to try, but you aren't ready for this. You probably do know Joe better than anyone else, even your father and I, but there's one aspect of Joe that we understand better than you do. The only thing the two of you can't really know about the other one is how you behave when you're separated. We have the opportunity to see you two away from one another and of course you can't do that."

"What's that g-got to do with-"

"Hear me out, ok?"

He nodded, searching the blue eyes that were a paler version of his brother's.

"You hear the comments people make, that you're the rational academic one; Joe's the intuitive loose cannon?" Laura didn't approve of the stereotyping, but she couldn't find a better place to start. At Frank's clipped nod she continued. "Nobody's all one or the other, you know that, and that's as true for you as for anyone else. Could you hear Joe the other day at the fune- ...at the church? What he said about rushing into trouble confident you'd haul him out?"

The next nod was accompanied by an audibly anguished swallow. _Except that I'm not..._

"When you two are apart, you retreat from the roles you've assigned yourselves in that partnership." She silenced his half formed rebuttal, grasping his hand. "There's nothing wrong with that division, honey, each of you uses the skills you're most comfortable with and that's what allows you to work so well together, but being more comfortable with some facets of your personality doesn't prevent you from accessing the others when the need arises. You're more impetuous and brash when you don't feel the need to be the protector, Joe is more meticulous and reserved when he knows he's without backup. He won't rush headlong into trouble this time."

"He sh-shouldn't **be** without backup!" Frank shook his head, realizing he was venting at his mother and yet unable to stop. "I'd trust Joe with my life, he h-has a right to expect the same. It's clichéd and I know how it sounds, but I have absolute faith that if he thought I needed him, an army brigade wouldn't keep him away. As a matter of f-fact, it didn't."

Laura watched her older son take a couple of deep breaths, regaining his composure. "He wasn't wheelchair bound at the time and he's not without backup, Frank, your dad's there."

"I know, but..."

"Honey, Joe will be fine. Fenton will be fine. Right now, the person I'm worried about is you." For a minute the vision of the young man in front of her melted into the shy child that scrambled into her lap when frightened, cherub faced and clutching a tattered bear, calming as she sang. When had soothing his fears become so complicated?. She stood, unlocking the wheelchair brake in the process to return Frank to his room.

He flipped it back to locked. "Mom, wait. I appreciate what you're trying to d-do. Really. This is my decision, though. The way you've b-been talking... I haven't heard that v-voice in a decade..."

Laura sat again, perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"It's the voice y-you used when we were little and you were trying to explain s-something we might not be able to understand. I'm not unaware of my limitations right n-now... but I promised Joe."

"Promised him what? That you'd get yourself killed first chance you got?" She regretted the words as soon as they slipped loose, even though she'd kept the tone gentle. "I'm sorry, that wasn't fair. Joe told me that you two had a talk at the hospital back in Jakarta about everyone treating you differently and you feeling like you didn't have any control over what was happening. The last thing I want to do is add to that by talking to you like you're still a child, but Frank, honey, you know you're not able to go anywhere."

"Thought we were g-going to Princeton."

Laura started to bristle at the sarcasm after she'd spent an hour weighing almost every word, but then she saw the faint smile. The same one Fenton had, a smile produced far more by the warm chocolate eyes than any movement of his mouth. " **Are** we going to Princeton?"

"Thought maybe you were trying a n-new tactic to keep me from going after Joe - make me so mad at him for sh-sharing private conversations that I wouldn't want to." The smile widened for a moment, then disappeared. "Honestly, I d-don't know. He needs me there." _She's making perfect sense, I know that, but... but... it's Joe..._

"Even healthy this isn't somewhere I'd want you going; I wasn't in favor of Joe returning to the island. Both of you are extremely competent, but this isn't a mystery to sleuth out. Chet's not kidnapped by criminals, he's been captured by a fanatical militia. It's not remotely the same and I don't think you're old enough to be involved in something like this. I'm sorry, Frank, I just don't."

"Actually, I a-am." Frank's fingers traced another path through his hair. "I'm eighteen, Mom. I could go down to the recruiting station t-tomorrow and be involved in something very much like this within six months."

"You wouldn't." Laura clamped down on a pallor inducing panic, embarrassed at the reaction. "You won't?"

"No, I w-won't." _Although_ _Joe's batted the idea around... not too seriously I think..._ "It isn't what I want. Hooper intends too, though, and his parents are proud of his decision. Are you saying you wouldn't b-be because I'm n-not adult enough to decide?"

"Of course I would. I'd be scared stiff the whole time, but proud." Laura knew this conversation wasn't really about the relative merits of joining the marines. "You're very good at this, you know."

"At what?"

"Maneuvering the conversation around so that I have to agree with you. Fenton does that too, I suppose it's a genetic talent."

"Dad s-says I got it from you."

"Humph, maybe. You've made your point, anyway. I can't tell you whether or not to go to Ranei." Laura slipped from the bench to move closer to her son, the back of her fingers trailing briefly over a cheek. "I can ask you, though, and I am. There's no way I can watch you every second and if you're determined to make a jail break, I'm certain you'll manage. So I'm asking you, Frank, please... "

"To ignore Joe?"

"No, never that. You said you would trust Joe with your life; I'm asking you to do something harder than that. I'm asking you to trust him with his."

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Chet stumbled slightly at a shove on his back, surprised to be herded toward the central square of the compound rather than the primitive barracks. He'd expected to dragged off to the beach to unload the evening ships after his morning taunting session, but that hadn't happened and twilight was fast approaching. Initially, he'd entertained the idea that his personal khaki clad menace had simply forgotten to pass that plan along to the evening guards, but the closer the courtyard loomed, the more Chet feared the consequence of his outburst might be more than bruised shoulders and a hard night.

The entire camp crowded around the pair of stone buildings that housed the soldiers and served as a headquarters of sorts. Chet ended up in toward the front of the crowd, grateful not to be the focus of attention. He sank onto the ground, eyes lowered, having no desire to watch some other sap suffer the attentions of their hosts.

Clipboard's voice caught his ear, the colonel's presence at these gatherings being somewhat unusual, but he still didn't look up. If Clipboard was here, then whatever was about to ensue was definitely something he didn't care to see. Maybe he could block it out and sneak a few minutes of blessedly numbing sleep. He felt guilty as soon as that idea flitted through his mind, and yet exhaustion claimed him and he did doze, the relaxed posture banishing some of the ever present aches. A gunshot jerked him back to the reality of the camp.

"Not... telling you... anything."

The slurred words ground out after the pistol's retort weren't loud at all, but they sliced through Chet with all the subtlety of braying donkey. He stared at the raised earthen mound that served as stage for their wardens, then took a second look, and then a third... ...Finally stunned words tumbled free. "Joe Hardy?"

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to be continued...


	18. Chapter 18

A/N - I so appreciate hearing from all of you and to everyone reading along, thank you. Cherylann, Paulina Ann, EvergreenDreamweaver, ErinJordan, I appreciate the kind words and insight and thank you and hello to BMSH, who has reviewed several of my stories in the last 24 hours - you all made me smile. Now hopefully part of this chapter will make you smile...

 **CHAPTER 17**

"Mr. Shuman, a moment if you please." Clipboard raked an eye over his subordinate in the predawn light, mildly irritated at the rumpled undershirt and drawstring shorts. "I see that cultivating your public image failed to make the to-do list."

Nicholas hastily stifled a yawn. "It's five fifteen AM. I'll look presentable to the public as soon as it's light enough for them to actually see. Are you here to discuss my wardrobe, Colonel?"

"I shall discuss whatever I may choose. However, the answer to that would be no, I am not. I came to offer my thanks, Nicholas, although I may reconsider that if you persist in being boorish."

"Thanks?"

"Yes. The names you provided for New York contacts may well prove useful."

"You were able to have the Hardys' house bugged then?"

Clipboard shook his head, an arched eyebrow highlighting his expression. "There is no need as Mrs. Hardy is not there. The death of her older son has apparently driven her away from her home and its unwelcome reminders. It is kinder, perhaps, that she will only need to go through this process once. She can mourn Joseph concurrently and rebuild her life thereafter."

"I doubt she's going to see it that way, but sure, whatever you say." Nicholas tugged at the hem of his t-shirt, smoothing it out of habit. "So where is she?"

"That remains to be determined, but your associates are tapping information as we speak. Now if you will kindly perform some sort of morning ablution and join me in the atrium, I would like to review any information you may have regarding the names on this list. All of them were considered to be persons who might be aware of Laura's location or might be contacted by her."

Shuman nodded, scanning the primarily unfamiliar names as he ambled back to his bunk.

 **Chester and Clara Morton - Chet's parents**

 **Sam Radley - partner**

 **Ezra Collig - Bayport Police Chief**

 **Con Riley - police officer**

 **Callie Shaw - Frank Hardy's girlfriend**

 **Vanessa Bender - Joe Hardy's girlfriend**

 **Biff Hooper - returned from Ranei**

 **Amy Blake - Laura Hardy's sister**

 **Gertrude Hardy - Fenton's sister**

 **Rose Hardy - Fenton's mother**

"Well, I vaguely recognize Radley and Collig's names from my New York days at least." The former Network agent considered the matter, thinking out loud as he walked. "No clue about this Riley, but knowing Fenton Hardy, he probably did ask the local police to keep an eye on his wife. Doubt she's chatting with them, though."

Somewhere between his bunk and the shower, the skills that had made him Elias Dahl's favorite operative in the lifetime before he transformed into Clipboard's flunky made a reappearance. "Watching all those people won't hurt, but Laura's grieving her son. If she's going to contact anyone, it'll be someone that can commiserate. Yep, spy all you want, Manado, but the person you need to center in on is Callie Shaw."

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Fenton crept from his hiding space, unconsciously marking steps as he eased into an ink-black night. He sighed slightly as his cuff brushed over his watchband. Joe teased him mercilessly about his luddite preference in time pieces, but Fenton preferred his wind up watches with their miniscule silver stems and softly ticking hands. No ill timed beeping to summon disaster on a stakeout, no impossible to replace batteries, no Mensa inspired programming instructions that drew forth a vocabulary that would find him sleeping on the couch. Right now though, he'd give a lot for one of those lovely little green glow lights. He couldn't risk using his flashlight to monitor the time, reduced to utilizing the metronome automatically counting in the back of his head that had developed over the years. Fortunately, it was uncannily accurate.

A mere sliver of moon flirted with the cloud cover, the feeble light it provided adequate only to ward off falling on his nose. Two pairs of soldiers looped through the destroyed base on a thirty minute interval, their relaxed postures suggesting they didn't expect any intrusions. Fenton had watched them finish a fourth circuit and was now confident that their pattern wouldn't alter, as long as he managed to stay quiet. Slipping toward the center of the compound, he darted into the largest of the buildings that was more or less still upright, beginning his search.

Sheltered beneath a partially intact roof, Fenton rummaged through Joe's knapsack, extracting the slim penlight and wire cutters that he knew his son kept in the inside pocket. He'd crammed a change of clothes, bottles of water, matches, and a knife liberated from Connor's kitchen into the canvas bag, relying on Joe to have the kit otherwise well stocked. If they'd been in the States, a utility knife would have been there anyway, but that wouldn't have made it through airport security. The suitcase he'd left Connor's with was gone now too, the papers crammed inside taken in an attempt to obscure his trail rather than for any future use. Not that Fenton would mind having the extra carrying capacity of the case itself for this foray, but it wouldn't have survived his swim ashore. The strangely colored designer luggage was somewhere in the depths of the Pacific Ocean now, and he doubted Joe would mourn its demise. His son had accepted the gift from his Aunt Gertrude with admirable grace, but the Day-Glo swirls had led him to ask Fenton later if she'd ever secretly been a flower child.

The tan knapsack was somewhat of a specialty item as well, normal enough in appearance to serve as book sack for high school, but lined in synthetic rubber. On one case or another, Joe had exceeded his tolerance for damaged items when he got flung into a river - again. Returning to the bag once more, Fenton's fingers skimmed over the small embroidery kit and he smiled, barely managing to choke off an outright chuckle. The memory flashed through him in the course of a dozen heartbeats, but even that brief mental glimpse of his child churned an indescribable collection of regret, amusement, fear, pride, love... desperation...

 _"And what is this?" The airport security officer pulled a ruffled packet of quilted red calico fabric out of the younger Hardy's bag and deposited it on the formica table in front of him. He unsnapped the white ribbon bow and unfolded the cloth, revealing a selection of large needles and several tiny bundles of yarn in an assortment of springtime colors._

 _"It's an embroidery kit." Joe answered him with a polite smile, appearing perfectly composed. Fenton and Frank stood fifteen behind him, another officer not so subtly interposed between the pair and the blonde youth. None of them knew why Joe had been pulled out of line at boarding check in, but the cover identities that had gotten them into the Central American nation might not get them back out if the scrutiny became too intense. The elder pair had been waved through after the usual cursory inspection of their passports and signing the customs declaration. Joe, however, had been manhandled into the small security office. The guards thus far had confiscated his socks and shoes, gone through his pockets, ransacked all of the clothes in his carry on, opened his snacks and thrown them away, read a dozen random pages of the novel he was carrying, and now were down to inspecting his house keys and the brightly colored fabric item._

 _"An embroidery kit? I have no idea what that is, kid. What's it for?" The jumbo guard towered over the sixteen year old, one beefy hand on Joe's shoulder and the other on the grip of his holstered side arm._

 _"You know, embroidery." Joe's smile could have lit a stadium. "Using different colors of yarn to sew pictures of flowers and birds and stuff."_

 _The officer looked unconvinced, eyes raking over the clearly athletic American teenager. "And you enjoy sewing these pictures?"_

 _Joe kept the embroidery needles to serve as lock picks and was almost as adept at using them as the real deal, and the yarn had tied up more than one suspect, but that explanation wasn't likely to get him on a plane home. Of course a real set of lock picks and a pair of handcuffs probably wouldn't have sailed through security either. "Absolutely, do it all the time."_

 _"You... sew?"_

 _Apparently the answer didn't sit well with the hulk leaning ever nearer to the youngest Hardy, and Fenton tensed, wondering if there was any way to haul his child away from the man without getting arrested. His son, however, seemed nonplussed._

 _"Yes, love it." Joe didn't bat an eye when the officer whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, continuing to grin amiably and discuss his lifelong passion for crewel work._

 _"Show me." The hanky was shoved toward Joe._

 _"Oh, yeah, of course." Joe sauntered behind the table, plonking in the guard's chair and propping bare feet on the table before selecting a large needle and some salmon colored yarn. Threading the oversize eye, he knotted off the end of the fiber and began stabbing it in and out of the thin white fabric with gusto._

 _"That doesn't look like a flower to me."_

 _"Sure it does. I prefer a more abstract approach than you're used to seeing maybe, more Picasso than Yoshiko Kamei, right? Here, let me show you." Joe patted the edge of the chair and made room for the guard, extolling the wonders of fifty types of stitches at a dizzying pace. "Now, the double half hitch, that one is phenomenal. Try it, come on."_

 _The taller man sat, peering at the complicated tangles of yarn Joe seemed to be producing. Somehow he ended up with the cloth in his hands in a matter of minutes._

 _"Well, that's more of a Carson triple knot, but it's much better than your first one. Let's try adding some blue, because this is beginning to look fantastic." Joe threaded a second needle, taking the opportunity to stand and lean over the officer's shoulder. "Well, look at that! You're such a natural at this. That's the best sailor basket I have ever seen! Wow! If you put in about five more of those, I promise you that is going to blend in and it will end up gorgeous. Add on some of the green for a stem and you can frame it. This is quality stitchery; are you sure you haven't done this before?!"_

 _Fenton was shifting from nervous apprehension to flabbergasted amusement, watching a performance that was beyond description. He'd kept an unobtrusive hold on the back of Frank's shirt, aware of how close his older son was to bolting toward his brother, but as the scene stretched on he felt the stiffness ease from Frank's shoulders._

 _Ten minutes later the guards were hustling the three of them onto their flight, Joe still twisting his fingers in a demonstration of something he dubbed the revised double weave loop and promising to write in between praises of the officer's artistic mastery . The smiling officer was beaming at the hideous conglomeration of knots adorning his handkerchief, waving the colorful square at the Hardys until the plane taxied away._

 _Frank found his voice first, sending an incredulous smirk his sibling's way. "What on earth was that?"_

 _Joe leaned his head back against his seat, eyes closed as he shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?"_

 _"Do you actually know_ _ **anything**_ _about how to sew? You tried to put a button back on your pants at camp with a stapler for goodness sake! What's all this triple weave half stitch bit?"_

 _"Made it up." Joe opened his eyes, then winked._

 _Frank stared at him a minute, shaking his head. "Picasso I know. What about Kamei, you make that up, too?"_

 _"Nope. It's the signature under that purple flower print in Vanessa's bedroom."_

 _"That you remember... you make me help you with your trigonometry homework because you forget the formulas... but that you remember... You are a piece of work, little brother."_

 _"Vanessa's room's more inspiring than Ms. Reed's trig class, what can I say..."_

 _Frank playfully slapped at the top of Joe's head when his brother waggled his eyebrows._

 _A sharply cleared throat reminded both of them that their father was right there. "Frank, stop horsing around, the plane's crowded."_

 _"Sorry, Dad."_

 _Fenton nodded, then turned to Joe just in time to spot the tongue he was sticking out at Frank. "And Joe, when exactly did Mrs. Bender or I give you permission to be in Vanessa's bedroom?"_

 _A loud gulp drew a snicker from Frank._

 _"No, Dad, I was just looking in there, at the pictures, and well photos, you know, I wasn't, it wasn't like we, I didn't... I'm not sure Vanessa was even in there at the time... Dad?"_

Fenton added the coil of wire he'd just unearthed to the knapsack as the memory faded. The last year and a half had been a series of heart-rending trials, but the irrepressible joy at the core of his younger child was still there. Still smiling at the snookered airport guard of a year ago, Fenton sent a silent promise to his son. No one was going to end Joe's life before he had an opportunity to get that happiness back. Not happening today or any other day, regardless of what that might entail.

Estimating he was almost at the half hour mark, Fenton flattened himself onto the floor, tight against the wall. This was the most dangerous part of his venture, having only the darkness to hide him if the soldiers should happen to look his way. Still, there wasn't any possibility of gathering everything he needed in thirty minutes, so he relied on silence until the pair passed by his position. He considered not bothering to hide; after all, there was a very good chance that the soldiers guarding the fort were loyal to the elected government of Ranei and would welcome his information on the rebel base nearby. The American detective just couldn't risk a test of that theory.

The footsteps faded again and he peeled himself from the damp stone, giving up on the building he was currently in and working his way into the next one at a half crouch. Several anxious minutes later, he found what he'd been looking for. Unfortunately it couldn't have been in a worse spot.

Even a small contingent of troops would need some means of keeping in contact with the capitol, and the elder Hardy had been confident there would be communications equipment here. There was. Sadly, it couldn't have been positioned more centrally between a quartet of sleeping soldiers with a compass and a slide rule.

Edging silently toward the first cot, Fenton quickly assessed his options. The sleeping soldier couldn't be older than sixteen or seventeen at the outside, boots at the foot of the bed and his sidearm below it, the teenager's fingers grazing the stone floor a few inches away. Fenton managed to sink to his knees without waking the youth, carefully relieving him of the pistol.

A second uniformed man rolled over in the cot to the left, idly scratching at his hairy stomach after a loud gasping snore. Fenton froze with his hand inches from the second gun, the snore half rousting the other young men. He held his breath until they settled, tucked the weapon in his waistband, and then scooted to the center of the loose ring.

The radio equipment he'd hoped to use was out of the question now, too heavy to carry and too noisy to use where it sat. The small computer, though, had potential. The same thought that had gone through his head on his last trip to the island passed through again. Most of Ranei was desperately poor, without electricity, adequate water, schools, or contact with the outside world. The central government continually expressed regret that this was the case outside of the capitol, insisting it simply wasn't possible to rectify the situation, but when it came to guns, ammunition, a smattering of tanks, heck even advanced computer technology to make it easier to shoot at one another, well that they had in spades.

He grabbed the laptop and slipped back behind the first bed, deciding to see if he could work the thing before leaving the sleeping area. A minute later he sighed in disgust. Satellite internet access was possible, but it was naturally password protected. At home, he might have had a chance at hacking his way into the system even if he didn't share Frank's degree of talent for it; but in Indonesian, he didn't stand a chance. He either needed to abandon the idea of recruiting some help or take a more assertive approach to sending a message.

Without assistance, he could still conceivably sneak into the rebel camp and rescue Joe. Of course, if Chet or Elias Dahl were there also, he'd have less of an opportunity to free them, and certainly the possibility that he'd end up captured too instead of rescuing anybody was higher. If he was wrong about where Joe was being held, then the whole game was over. From a mercenary standpoint, going it alone didn't make much sense. The trouble was the alternative wasn't all that appealing.

A sharp gasp made the decision for him. The boy before him was awake, dark eyes staring at the stranger inches from his cot. The tableau held for a second, then the youth rolled upward and simultaneously reached for his holster, his mouth opening slightly when he found the leather empty. Fenton was on him before he could make another sound, one hand plastered over the kid's mouth, the other drawing the firearm on its prior owner. He gestured with the snubbed barrel, ushering the young soldier outside and tugging both of them behind a pile of rubble.

Fenton let go of the teen as soon as he possibly could, hating that he was probably terrifying the boy. He pitched his voice at a soft whisper and pointed the gun upward, but he didn't put the firearm down. "I don't want to hurt you. I think we may be on the same side."

The youth shook his head, confused. He matched the whisper when he spoke. "Anda ingin apa?"

"Wonderful, you don't speak any English, do you?"

"Anda?"

"Great, this is going to go so well." Fenton opened the computer, pointing at the password screen before pushing it toward his companion.

The soldier initially shook his head, then glanced between the American holding his gun and the thirty yards he'd have to traverse to reach any type of cover. Reluctantly he began to type.

"I've got a son your age, did you know that? That's why I'm here, actually, and it's definitely why you're here. I wouldn't do this for any other reason, trust me. Yeah, that's likely, isn't it? You always trust someone that drags you out of your bed at gunpoint. My favorite way to make an acquaintance, certainly." Fenton's murmurs stayed low and lilting, making an attempt to reassure the youth by tone if not by the words themselves. "I'm sorry to do this, I truly am, but stolen gun or not, I can't fight all of you, so I can't let you wake up your friends. You're going to be fine, though, I can promise you that."

"Tolong jangan tembak aku. Saya akan melakukan apa yang Anda inginkan tapi, tolong..."

Fenton silenced him, his mental chronometer judging the patrolling guards would be near their location soon. Dimming the screen as much as he could, he fired off two quick messages, neither to people he would choose to contact except in dire circumstances. "Better not make me regret this, Arthur."

The muttered comment remained inaudible even to the boy beside him. Rapidly shoving the laptop into the already bulging knapsack, the detective began communicating in a series of pantomimes and sketches drawn in the ash with his finger, playing the penlight over each one as he finished. When the soldier beside him slid a foot further away, he tightened a hand around the youth's wrist, making sure the gun was still visible.

Shaking slightly, the teen completed a quick sketch of his own. The costal rocks slightly past the army post were clearly indicated, along with a smoother arc Fenton assumed was a flatter beach area. Three short curved lines topped with smaller triangles were on either side of that.

Fenton nodded, praying the pictionary game meant what he thought it did. He grabbed some of the yarn from Joe's bag, tying the soldier's wrists and then wrapping the extra twine around the bound wrists and the kid's ankles. A few strips from the spare t-shirt he'd been carrying made a serviceable gag.

"Sorry about this, but I can't have you waking everybody up. That yarn will fray on these rocks easily enough, shouldn't take long to get yourself loose." Fenton kept what he hoped was an encouraging expression on his face, aware the youth probably couldn't see it in the dark anyway, but needing to soothe his conscience with the effort. "Ok, I'm going. Not coming back either, I promise. Really wish I could explain this to you..."

Fenton crept out of the compound before the patrolling men could make another pass and slunk into the welcome cover of the dense tropical trees. The ferns and vines closed ranks around him, erasing any trace that he'd been there - at least until a young soldier could free himself from some string and raise the alarm.

Forty minutes later, Fenton was flinging the stuffed pack into a small wooden boat and wading out to launch the craft into blessedly calm seas. "Heck of a night you're having here, Hardy. Trespassing, petty larceny, kidnapping, and now grand theft rowboat..."

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to be continued...


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: Sorry everyone, been out of town to see my dad and my father-in-law for Father's Day, hope everyone to whom that applies had a good one. Thanks for all the wonderful reviews.

 **CHAPTER 18**

CallaLilly says: I'm here. What's up?

VLB says: You coming home soon?

CallaLilly says: Next week, maybe.

VLB says: Oh, ok.

CallaLilly says: Hey, you ok?

VLB says: Course not. I need Joe - I'm worried sick - can't sleep - can't eat-

CallaLilly says: Yeah...me, too. He'll be ok, Ness... it won't be like before.

VLB says: Crap, Cal, I'm sorry - Not sure what I'm thinking - I shouldn't be talking about getting Joe back - Are you holding up?

CallaLilly says: Hanging in there. Kinda all cried out.

VLB says: Can't imagine how you feel - and now I'm wishing for Joe in front of you so to speak - I'm sorry.

CallaLilly says: It's ok - I'm worried about Joe, too.

VLB says: Going to take a long time for any of us to be ok, I guess.

CallaLilly says: Yeah, but once Joe's home it'll get better - especially if he brings Chet.

VLB: Maybe. You're so much stronger than I'd be if it was Joe - think I'd curl up and die.

CallaLilly says: I still might - so not so strong, but thanks for saying so - I miss Frank.

VLB says: Frank loved you. He'd be proud of you, Cal.

CallaLilly says: For running off to hide at the beach with my folks?

VLB says: No, for not falling apart - I couldn't handle it if something happened to Joe.

CallaLilly says: I pretty much already fell apart. Joe's going to be ok, you know that -

VLB says: I don't think so.

CallaLilly says: Why?

VLB says: Frank's gone - what if that makes Joe not try? What if he doesn't want to make it home?

CallaLilly says: Oh, Ness - Joe's not going to give up.

VLB says: What if he does? I keep having nightmares that he'll get hurt and not have a reason to fight his way back.

CallaLilly says: He has a reason - you.

VLB says: What if I'm not enough? I can't imagine him without Frank - what if he can't either?

CallaLilly says: You know Joe better than that - he won't just quit.

VLB says: Sorry. I'm just so scared we'll lose him too. Wish you were back here so we could really talk.

Clipboard thumbed at the corner of the stack of printer paper, disheartened to find this was the first page of six. Rubbing at his forehead, he stopped reading and barked at the soldier standing in front of his desk. "I assume there is some point to this endless drivel aside from studying the minimalist conversational skills of teenage girls?"

A wide smile accompanied his aide's answer. "Oh, yes sir. You may want to skip to the last page."

"Very well."

VLB says: YOU'RE SURE?

CallaLilly says: YES! Joe told me himself right after the funeral.

VLB says: I'm so happy for you Callie - and if Frank's ok - well maybe Joe will be too... but I wonder why Joe didn't tell me?

Clipboard rapidly scanned backward as soon as he saw Frank's name. "Well, well. It would seem one Mr. Frank Hardy is an extraordinarily resilient young man. How very interesting... and how very unnecessary."

The colonel's voice darkened into an unsettling rasp while his almond skin suffused with a deep burgundy rage. He glowered at the few militia members unfortunate enough to lie in his trajectory as he stomped his way to the camp headquarters, each step ratcheting his anger up another notch. He opened the door with a roar.

"Nicholas Shuman! Rao! Come here - NOW!"

Shuman appeared almost instantly, the slovenly clothes of the morning now replaced with his usual crisp khaki attire. One look at Clipboard and he automatically retreated a step. "Colonel?"

"Twice, Shuman. It happened twice! Incompetent, inept, idiotic imbeciles! WHERE IS RAO!?" Tiny trails of sweat edged down the officer's florid countenance to retreat beneath his collar, the fabric quivering at the hollow of his throat as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

Somehow asking what happened twice didn't seem advisable. "Rao's at the worksite. Is there something you need?"

"Yes, most definitely yes." Clipboard swooped closer to the other man, halting an inch from his nose before hissing an answer. "What I need is a staff possessed of even the barest degree of proficiency. However, in lieu of that apparently unobtainable goal, I want transportation to New York arranged within the hour."

"New York? I thought you didn't want me to go?" Seeing the officer's clenched fists begin to tremble, Shuman hastily backtracked from the question. "Not that I mind, of course. An hour, no problem."

" **You** are not going anywhere! **I** am traveling to New York. I am surrounded by fools incapable of killing a mere boy."

"What?"

"Frank Hardy is what. First Rao failed to hang him in Ranei, then you supplied inaccurate information about his death in Bayport. Fenton Hardy has eluded you, Elias Dahl continues to defy your attempts to convert him to our organization, and Joseph has told you nothing. I will manage this situation myself, beginning with Frank."

"With all due respect, Colonel, I don't think any of the Hardys present that much of a risk to the revolutionary cause, especially Frank, who isn't even here. Why is this such a big deal to you?"

The colonel's eyebrows lowered in unspoken threat, permeating the small room. "What is or is not of importance to me is hardly your concern, Mr. Shuman! There is no way to discern which pieces of information the Hardy family may have seen and there is also the not insignificant matter of credibility. It is rather difficult to enforce order among the populace if it becomes common knowledge that a captured teenager, injured, alone, and thousands of miles from home, still thwarted a death sentence, is it not? Frank Hardy is certainly not the first person I will have murdered personally; he will not be the last. Apparently I must literally witness his last breath to ensure his demise. I trust my travel itinerary will be ready by the time I finish packing?"

"Yes, of course, but I still don't think the kid is a threat."

"I... DID... NOT... ASK... YOU!"

"Ah, right... travel documents, coming right up." Nicholas decided this wasn't the time to point out that he hadn't even been working directly with the rebel faction when Frank escaped from their prison. Not if he had any attachment to continued breathing, anyway.

"And Mr. Shuman, as soon as I land in New York I expect to receive additional information as to where to locate Frank Hardy."

"Sure." Shuman had no idea how he was going to pull that off. "What about Joe and Fenton?"

"Find out what they know, then kill them. If they are not deceased the next time we meet, then I will dispatch you to explore the afterlife along with them. I am no longer prepared to accept your paltry assurances that the task is complete, either - leave the bodies where I can find them. Even your inept intellectual process should be able to comprehend that."

"Crystal clear. How many days do you want before your return trip?"

"Three days in the United States should be adequate. Unlike some, I have minimal difficulty eliminating my targets." Clipboard's face was approaching its natural shade, but his voice still resonated with malice. "We have an entire camp full of young men, Nicholas. If Joseph proves as problematic to kill as his brother, I suggest you practice."

#####

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"Joseph?"

"Anything?"

"No, I think he's still pretty out of it. Get some water in him, it may help."

 _Water?... please... I need out... hurts... someone there?..._

"I'm not his nursemaid. You get water in him." Rao crouched down to the soggy earth and rolled the American teenager onto his spine, lifting an arm and frowning as it loosely flopped back to the ground. Dull grey-blue eyes stared past him. "You shouldn't have injected him again last night, doubt we'll get much out of him now."

Nicholas snorted. "First off, Col. Manado specifically said to redose him. If you'd seen the colonel this morning, you wouldn't consider ignoring his orders. Secondly, you don't think the kid's current state might be vaguely related to the fact that you shot him?!"

 _Shot? Someone got shot? ... not Frank? ...please... not... he's not here... no... no..._

"It's a flesh wound. Get him awake and all that hole will do is make sure I have his undivided attention." The stocky islander jabbed a finger at the ragged edge of the thigh wound, smiling when he got a grunt in return. "Humph, he may wake up after all. I'll be back in half an hour."

Shuman shrugged, then waved over a pair of youngish soldiers. The rattan box that had housed Joe Hardy the previous night was larger than the original one, but the teen still hadn't been able to completely uncoil his frame. "Stretch him out and one of you get behind him and prop him up."

 _Wait... who's there?... don't touch me... hurts... let me out... Frank?_

"Pry his mouth open." Nicholas trickled lukewarm water over cracked lips, aggravated when Joe failed to open his mouth. "Remembering the leech, huh kid? This is just water - well mostly, little dirt in it maybe - now open up!"

Slightly greenish water trailed down to the ground. "I don't have time for this Joe, and my day is off to a crappy start." The former agent gestured at one of his companions. "Clamp his nose and get a good hold on him."

Nicholas stood, walking to the edge of the thick vegetation. He inspected a number of plants, eventually selecting a larger round stemmed grass.

 _please... the water... what? no... no... help... can't breathe... no... Frank?... help me... no air..._

Shuman ignored the gagging, choking coughs as Joe thrashed his head, thumb digging into the corner of his jaw to force his mouth wider. A moment's resistance and then he was threading the hollow reed past Joe's tongue and tipping the slimy water through it. "There you go. That's it, swallow all of it."

Three scoopfuls of stagnant fluid later, he signaled the soldier kneeling in the mud to release his charge.

"Better? You're going to have to talk to me sooner or later, Joey, and a little water should have helped." Nicholas waited a few minutes, then backhanded Joe across the cheekbone. "You listening to me, Hardy? Time to give the confused act a rest and speak up."

 _What?... need help... hurts_... _Frank, you here?..._ "W-what?"

"Ah, you are still in there somewhere. Good. Rao's going to be back here in a minute, so you may want to talk now, kid, because he's not all sweet and friendly like me. Where's your dad?"

"Unngghhh... Don't know..." _Where's here?... hurts..._ "Frank? ...Help me?"

"Ooh, you'd rather talk about Frank. You know what? That suits me fine. I thought your brother was dead, but he's not and now my butt's in hot water, so we can definitely start there. Where'd your mother take him?"

 _What? Dead?... Frank's dead..._ _oh, no... please, please no..._ "Water?" _I'm so tired..._

"You've had all you're gonna get. Now where are your brother and your dad?" A minute passed in silence, ending in another sharp slap. "WHERE?!"

"Don't know..." Joe still hadn't focused on the face above him, unsure of who was speaking or where he was. His drugged thoughts wandered uncontrolled between silent fears and verbal responses, only snatches of the conversation around him fracturing the mental fog. The tip of his tongue dabbed at trickle of blood. "Frank's dead?" _No..._

"I am losing patience with you, Joe. Quit lying about your brother!" Nicholas slugged a hard punch in between the swaths of purple and blue adorning Joe's chest. "Where are they?"

 _Agghh... Can't... breathe... not Frank, please..._

 _...I don't see how his death gives me the privilege of betraying the confidences he's shared with me the last seventeen years..._

 _no... help..._

 _...I never considered planning a life that didn't include Frank to that same extent. The idea of doing that now is unbearable..._

 _My words... oh, no... Frank's... he's... dead?..._

 _...I was lucky enough to have all of that handed to me the first time he peered over the edge of my crib_...

 _funeral... please... no... wait... not dead... he's not... he's not... remember... protect him..._

"He said anything worth hearing?" Rao returned, prodding at Joe with a booted toe.

"Not really. Mostly babble."

"Shuman here may enjoy babble, but I tend to prefer screaming, Hardy. We can move on to that, or you can start making yourself useful." Rao dropped to his knees, one hand pressing into the mud on either side of Joe's head. "If you know where your father or brother went, now's the time to speak up."

"N-no." _hurts... tired..._ "Hurts."

"What?"

"Leg hurts..." _Hurts a lot... Frank?... water?_

"This leg?" Rao drew back his fist.

"AHH!" The punch into the filthy bandage elicited a short scream. "S-stop..." _Rao... he's here... hurts... please... help me... wait... asked about Frank... that's... that's bad... because... because... because_...

"Where, Joe?"

 _Frank's not dead?... no, supposed to be dead... because..._. It all came back in a rush, Joe's disoriented mind struggling to make sense of a thousand images flashing through a gallows, a village girl slicing flesh, the sterile whites of a pair of hospitals, the eulogy, and finally staring into Rao's eyes as pain seared through his thigh. _Frank? Dad? Help me?... no, hiding... my job... protect... this time..._

"My brother's ...dead." _Not dead... I think... please don't be..._

"That was the rumor, wasn't it?" Rao leaned closer, wafting equal parts garlic and unwashed jungle under Joe's nose. "Trouble is, Nicholas is actually right for once - you're lying! Last chance - where would he go!?"

"Dead... told you... he's... dead..."

"Yeah, you did, Joe. Then you went rambling on about your poor departed sibling, and we almost let it slide - blamed it on drug addled stupor." One of Rao's massive hands found its way around Joe's throat, squeezing. "I don't like being toyed with, Hardy."

"Can't... breathe... please... _" Dad?... help... I hurt... everywhere..._

The gasped words weren't intelligible, but the bulged eyes and faintly kicking feet conveyed their meaning beyond any doubt. Joe's vision had gone grey before Rao loosened his grip. "Well?"

Long coarse wheezes very slowly eased to loud gasped breaths. "Told you... he's dead..."

A humorless laugh escaped Rao. "Do you happen to know anybody named Callie Shaw, Joe? 'Cause that's not what you told her, is it? Did you really think no one would find out? Papa Hardy goes to all that trouble to spirit his heir away and you go and screw it up. Bet Daddy's so proud! NOW WHERE ARE THEY?"

 _Oh God... I sold Frank out... no... no... no_... _help_... "Frank's... dead..."

The American agent frowned at his island counterpart, annoyed at losing control of the conversation. "Not yet, kid, but he will be, and it's all thanks to you. Couldn't keep one little secret to save your brother's life. We ought to be grateful, I suppose. Clipboard would have never looked for Frank without your gabbing. Maybe I should have Rao snap your neck right now, get it over with quick as sort of a little thank you. What do you think, Joe?"

 _Sorry Frank... I never meant to... hurts... my fault... so sorry... God... I betrayed him... can't breathe... no... no... no, no, no, no, no..._

"Answer! You have anything to say that's going to make you worth keeping you around or should we just kill you?"

 _I betrayed Frank..._ "Doesn't... ...matter."

to be continued...


	20. Chapter 20

**CHAPTER 20**

Fenton sloshed through waves that threatened to drag him under, the calm seas of the night before replaced with an ocean intent on claiming the lone sailor for its own. It was nearly dusk again, hours later than he'd hoped to make landfall. He couldn't shake the idea that Joe had spent those hours praying for a rescue that never came. His son was resourceful, he'd more than proven that on their previous trip to the island, but this time he'd already been injured when he'd been taken from Ranei. None of the capitol fisherman had been able to tell the detective exactly what had befallen his child three days ago, but their descriptions had been relentlessly consistent. A tall blonde teen had been pulled from the army structure, eyes closed, head lolling, completely unresisting to the men surrounding him. While any number of things could produce that state, none of the possibilities reassured the worried father.

The small craft, its sail now furled, was difficult for a single man to pull from the water, especially in choppy seas, but Fenton was hesitant to abandon it. If his message hadn't gotten through, the tiny vessel might be his only exit from this island. Finally wrestling the wooden hull past the narrow strip of sand, he secured it to the trunks of overhanging coconut palms with a length of rope and surveyed his surroundings. The crescent of sand he was standing on extended only fifty yards or so in either direction before dark boulders jutted out into the waves, fountains of spray rhythmically pulsing skyward with a roar. He'd have no choice but to head into the rainforest, hacking through the vines and understory trees as quickly as he could. Assuming he'd kept reasonably well to the compass bearing he'd chosen, he was slightly west of where Joe predicted the militia base would lie. Of course, that was assuming that Joe was right, and that Fenton had picked the right island to start with, but he had to begin somewhere. Slinging the knapsack over his shoulder and unsheathing a knife that looked far more like he'd stolen it from Blackbeard than a twenty-first century kitchen, he ducked under a plethora of low hanging vegetation to begin his eastward trek.

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"Wannnn whaaterr." Joe blinked as his head bounced, coming to the conclusion that he was awake again and that he was the one who had spoken at about the same time. Now if he could decide who he was speaking to and what on earth he'd said, he might be in business. He forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths, wincing at the sharp pain that darted through his chest when he did, but consciously halting any other response until he could mentally take stock of his situation. The voice in his head suggesting he run through everything he felt and could remember sounded suspiciously like his dad's.

What he could remember wasn't especially helpful. Disjointed scenes from the capitol wharf to the sickening realization that he'd betrayed his brother to Rao swam in his head. He could recall several doses from an amber toned syringe, so the surreal quality to the images didn't surprise him, but it didn't allow him to figure out how he got to be right here, either.

And here appeared to be mobile. At first, Joe thought someone was grinding sand into his skin, but after another good jolt rattled his teeth he decided the sand wasn't moving, he was. Craning his neck, he spotted a tanned hand clamped around each of his ankles, dragging him across an ebony grained beach. The owner of the hands had his back to Joe, but the younger Hardy didn't think it was anyone he recognized. It was a little hard to tell with his head scraping along the ground and his feet up on the other man's shoulders, actually. The broad shoulders and pony-tailed raven hair drifted in and out of focus as Joe squinted his eyes against the midday light, even the clouded sky too bright for his pounding head.

 _Ok, I've got no idea what day it is... I'm dizzy as a mojo... wonder what that means, Mom always says that... focus, Hardy... my ribs ache, my bones feel like jello, the Marine Corp Drum Ensemble has taken up residence in my skull, Sampson here is yanking me around like his own personal pull toy, and my leg feels like... like... well, like somebody shot me. Yep, think that pretty much sums it up... now if I just knew what to do about it... On the plus side, I can almost put two thoughts together again..._

A shallow wave lapped at Joe's hair and back, receding almost before he registered the sting of the salt water on a myriad of scrapes. _Wanted water, but that's not what I had in mind...maybe it'll drown me and get this over with... deserve to drown... I ratted Frank out... can't live with that... I don't want to... but... but... Chet's here... maybe... I could still help him... sorry, Frank... have to try..._ "So, where we headed, S-Sampson?"

Joe wasn't sure he'd been heard over the surf and repeated his question, forcing more volume through the raspy fire inhabiting his throat.

"Tutup mulut, mereka aka di sini segera."

"You know, the whole English thing was working for me. Why the change?" _Oh, Shuman's not here... no need for English..._

"Diam. Sedikitnya kekam Amerika anda sedikit kehidupan hampir lebih."

"Sure, right. Whatever _." I can do this... or at least I can fake it..._ Beginning to regain some muscle control, Joe twisted his better leg back and forth, trying to break free. "How 'bout you let me go?"

The soldier did exactly that, dropping Joe's legs only to spin around and stomp on the surprised teen's stomach, hard. "Dengan sedih, Rao dan Shuman mau membunuh anda, sebab saya akan mendapat banyak kesenangan dari hati-hati sekarang, anak laki-laki!"

Unable to fight, Joe instantly curled into a tight ball, oblivious to the words shrieked over him. Every inch of his body was intensely focused on forcing air in and out of his lungs. _Great, I can tick off people in languages they don't even speak..._

The next few minutes were blurry, a furious series of kicks landing along his spine and neck as Joe raised his arms to protect his head, an instinct to survive superseding any doubts he had about whether or not he deserved to do so. Part of him knew Frank wouldn't expect him to surrender to death as some sort of retribution for betraying his sibling. In fact, he'd be furious with Joe for even having the drug induced thought, no matter which side of the pearly gates they ended up on to discuss it. Joe honestly still wasn't certain whether could he could live with himself if Clipboard managed to kill Frank, but he couldn't live with it if he didn't try to save his brother and Chet. That much he knew. How to achieve that without someone saving him first was a trifle less clear.

Shouting erupted as Shuman and another militia member jogged up, abruptly ending the unprovoked attack. "Had enough, Joey?"

Joe ignored him, arms now wrapped tight around his stomach as he spat out a mouthful of blood tinged grit.

"I asked you a question, Hardy!" His foot found Joe's now unprotected ear.

"Enough... of... what?" The reply was gasped more than spoken, but as the drugs left Joe's system, sarcasm returned, offering a meager mental defense against the men hovering about.

"Of what?! You know, never mind." Nicholas turned to the first soldier, noting he was still panting from his exertions. "I said wake him up, not beat him to death. Pin him."

Joe didn't have time to ponder that before his knees were yanked away from his chest. Rao joined the gathering, dangling a heavy mallet and a handful of foot long wooden stakes attached to thick ropes. Each of the soldiers grabbed a foot, quickly tying it to one of the sticks and then pounding that into the sand. By the time Joe could mount a protest, one of his hands was secured as well, leaving him basically spread eagle on the beach.

Shuman sat above Joe's head, heels dug into the dirt, both hands yanking Joe's remaining wrist as far as he could. He reached for the final stake, convinced the taut body in front of him couldn't stretch any further. Irritated when Joe struggled to free his arm, he repositioned the tip of the wood, smiling as he rammed it through the edge of the flesh web between Joe's index finger and thumb.

"Unhh." Joe only managed a grunt.

"You're going to have to do better than that, Joe. I want to talk about your dad." Rao knelt at Joe's side, opposite Shuman.

"Unh..." The beach angled sharply down to the water, and Joe's half upside down state wasn't doing anything to return air to his chest. Rao's oversized hand smacked across his jaw. "Uh... No."

"Wrong answer again. The jathropa is wearing off; nothing to keep you from talking other than pig-headedness. Now, tell me about your dad and your brother."

Another slap doubled the ringing in Joe's head. "Umm.. ok. He's... tall... taller than me... way too interested in chess... weird taste in cars..."

Rao hunched over, scowling deep red face now inches from Joe's. "Not what I want to know, kid."

"Sucks at... racquetball..."

"You do get that I can kill you if you don't start talking."

Joe met the deep black eyes above him, stare never wavering as he spoke. "You... do get... that I know you'll do... that anyway."

Rao actually chuckled. "He's not as dumb as you thought, Shuman. You're right, that's inevitable. Giving me an idea where to find Fenton, though... this could go a lot easier... I had a good time with your brother, Joe, real good. You're about to find that out."

Joe shivered, but not because of the threat. That was twice now that he'd been asked about his father. Only his father. Meaning Rao already had all the information he needed about Frank. _I am so sorry, bro..._ "Yeah, well... Frank didn't think you were... that great of a host... really."

"I never said **he** had a good time." Rao landed a pair of punches on Joe's throat and chest, grinning at the harsh wheezing that followed. "Why don't you think about it a while? Shuman and I are going to watch a little wall building, but if you yell, we'll hear you. Just let us know when you want us, kid..."

"That'd be... half past... never..."

"Oh, I think you might change your mind."

Joe spent several minutes with breathing as the sole concern of his existence, his bare chest more a pain inducing bellows than conventional anatomy. Finally calming, he lifted his head from the ground, but was able to see nothing other than dark sand and an angry grey sky, each layer of clouds more forbidding than the one prior. While he couldn't see his jailors, he could hear the distinct sounds of construction to his right, so they probably weren't far away. He couldn't spot the surf, either, but his ears located that as well, alarmingly close behind him.

The first splatters of water he mistook for rain, but a larger gush was unmistakably a small wave, the water licking at his cheekbones and over his neck before returning to the sea. _Kinda changed my mind about that drowning thing..._

He found his arms and legs wouldn't give more than an inch, but he began rapidly nudging them back and forth, teeth clamped against the awful sensations that produced. The spikes binding him were set in sand. Surely they could be worked loose - but would it be before the water closed over Joe Hardy for good?

 _Well that's melodramatic... tide only comes in for twelve hours, not forever... course, holding my breath for twelve hours may be problematic..._

 _to be continued..._


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N** Thanks for the wonderful reviews today! In my attempt to hurry up and post this afternoon, I actually posted this chapter and the prior one in the opposite order, ugh! Fortunately, since the chapters skip between characters, it doesn't make any difference in terms of making sense, just tells me my brain is as befuddled with the travelling Sat, Sun, and this AM as I thought!

 **CHAPTER 19**

Chet sawed at the rope binding his wrist to the wooden cart shaft, the first three fingers of his left hand long since gone numb clamped around the sliver of bone serving as makeshift knife. He barely noticed the night's labor, mechanically hauling the cart behind him in sluggish, weighted strides that contrasted with the frenzied whirring in his brain. Exhaustion had come and gone at some point during the previous night, leaving an automated mindless obedience to the guard leading him. The hidden oscillation of his hand, the plodding of his feet, the strained muscles of his back all seemed quite separate from the mantra that permeated his thoughts. _Joe... get myself loose... they'll kill Joe... get myself loose... they'll kill Joe..._

It had taken more self control than Chet thought he possessed to allow the soldiers to haul him away from the center of the encampment the evening before. The last glimpse of Joe he'd managed, someone was wrapping long strands of white fabric around his leg. Strands that rapidly turned red. That wasn't much comfort, but it was enough to convince him that their captors planned for Joe to survive the night. As much as Chet had wanted to charge forward, it would have only gotten him killed, and perhaps Joe as well. So instead he'd lowered his head, hoping Joe hadn't heard him call out, and allowed himself to be herded into a night's work dragging the supply carts.

Having no opportunity to go back to his bed, such as it was, Chet had been unable to collect anything that might have aided an escape until the following morning. He tucked away a number of his carefully hoarded items during breakfast, but no opportunity to use them arose during yet another day of laying block. Chet had half expected to be yanked away from the wall building, knowing Joe would be more apt to answer questions to prevent harm to Chet than to himself, but maybe their captors didn't understand the younger Hardy as well as he did. Or maybe Joe's comment didn't mean what Chet thought and the militia wasn't actually interrogating him. Or maybe... maybe they'd killed Joe already and this whole train of thought was pointless.

Chet had dismissed that idea as quickly as he could. It might be true, but it certainly wasn't useful. Instead he had gathered a reserve of energy drawn primarily from sheer stubbornness, spouting enough sarcasm to see to it he'd be serving as cart donkey for another night. The Bayport farm boy that left New York for a spring break of surfing and sun might not have survived it, but there wasn't too much of that kid around anymore. The young man entering his third month of forced labor had a somewhat different perspective. Now he was halfway to daybreak once again, continuing to formulate and discard rescue plans at an alarming rate. Not knowing where they might have taken Joe, he resigned himself to composing the majority of it on the fly.

Chet jerked his hand upward at a tight cramp, the appendage above his waist before he realized it was free. He chanced a quick look at the guard, thankful his movement hadn't been seen, and transferred the sharpened bone to his opposite hand. The tedious sawing resumed, a final strand of fraying rope giving way six trips from the boats to the fortress wall later.

The sky was starting to lighten as Chet tugged another load to the building site, intentionally lagging behind the other youths pulling wagons. His supplies deposited, he circled around and faked a stumble. The soldier guiding him immediately yanked his arm up, but Chet stayed on his knees, floundering in the soil.

The soldier jerked on his elbow once more, then waved at his cohorts and their prisoners to continue back toward the shore when several quick thumps across Chet's back failed to return him to his feet.

Chet held his breath, waiting. The cart closest to him disappeared into the depths of the foliage in a time span that was likely far shorter than how it felt, leaving him alone with a guard under the mistaken impression he could be beaten back into service.

Certain they were alone now, Chet twisted around and grabbed the end of the cane as it made its next downward swath. An adrenalin surge composed of both excitement and fear reduced his reaction to a slight flinch as the momentum of the blow carried the captured rod and his own fist into his face. That hit scarcely registered, Chet intent on getting to his feet without relinquishing his grip. He jammed the pole forward and up, the tip catching the startled soldier in the chest.

"Saya akan membunuh anda, anak laki-laki. Dilepaskan!" The soldier wrapped both his hands around his end of the bamboo, pulling as hard as he could.

Chet allowed the motion to carry him closer to militia member. "Unless that's an invitation to a seven course meal, I'm not interested in what you have to say." Hopping clear of the cart shafts resting on the ground, he essentially fell into the shorter man, toppling both of them to the dirt.

Chet was exhausted, but he had more to lose than the guard, and as long as he could keep the struggle on the ground, he could remain somewhat in his element. Anyone who thought Chet didn't engage in vicious fights on a regular basis had never been on the bottom of a football player pile three seconds after a fumble. He planted his knees in the other man's abdomen, nudging them under the ribcage as far as he could as he slowly won control of the cane. Once the narrow pole was his, he spread his hands a foot apart in the center of its length, pressing it hard into the soldier's throat.

The uniform clad youth clawed at Chet's hands, desperate to dislodge the offending item while he still had air. His legs shoved up under the larger American, shifting Chet to the side enough to risk a grab at his holster. "Turun dari saya!"

Fortunately Chet felt the leather bulge against his thigh and realized the soldier's intent. "No you don't! I am sleep deprived, and hungry, and black and blue in places that I can't even find. I... am... not... being... target... practice!" He slid his knees to either side of the chest below him, trapping the man's arm tight against his side. A momentary lull ensued as they glared at each other, the soldier unable to control his prisoner, Chet unable to make good his escape.

Returning his full attention to weighting down the wood in his hands, Chet hung on with everything he had as fear of imminent strangulation transformed the soldier below him into a passable imitation of a rodeo bronco. A blur of grappling, rolling chaos occupied the next several minutes, rapid gouges interspersed with kicks and grunts that Chet couldn't consciously track.

Laying in the dirt on his back, Chet gasped air in and out, the violet streaks in the sky above him slowly creeping into his awareness. Another dozen heartbeats passed before he recognized that the struggle was over. Rolling onto his side, he spotted the form sprawled prone beside him. He scrambled to a crouch and reached for the other man, strangely relieved at the steady pulse beneath his fingers.

Retrieving the rope that had bound him to the cart the past two nights, Chet tied the soldier's wrists and ankles before dragging him into the damp undergrowth. After a second's hesitation, he removed the gun from its holster and stuffed it in the waistband of his tattered shorts, then collected a few items of potential use from the wagon. Climbing a small knoll, he stretched the abused muscles of his neck and shoulders as he took another look toward the water.

A dawn composed of shades of pink, apricot, and rose glowed over the deep turquoise of the sea, deceptively beautiful, and Chet lost a moment to standing in a far away valley of billowing grass at daybreak, mentally shuffling a half remembered rhyme from his father. _Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky at morning, sailors take... warning? Hardly the time to be pondering the weather, Morton..._

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Frank winced as the nylon strap tightened across his thigh, the metal clasp clicking into place. He experimentally flexed his knees, sighing when the fabric failed to give even an inch. "Is this really n-necessary?"

The man walked to his other side, a flat palm finding the center of Frank's chest and pressing him backward. He buckled another strap at mid chest before answering the question. "I'm afraid so, kid, wouldn't want you sliding off on your nose."

"I can walk you know."

"You do your walking on someone else's shift. I've got a perfect record, no escapes." He finished his sentence with a teasing grin.

"Frank, are you giving the crew a hard time?" Laura Hardy laughed as she tousled her son's hair, one hand vaguely gesturing at the navy uniformed EMT. "Be good, you know those straps are a safety regulation." She dropped her voice and added a softer comment, meant only for her son. "Besides, I'll loosen them up a mite as soon as we get in the ambulance."

The driver joined the trio behind his truck, helping the other medic load the stretcher. "You comfortable, Frank?"

"N-no. I'm trussed up like a turkey for Thanksgiving and it's too hot back here." A pout more suitable to three year olds than high school seniors flickered over his face.

"And Karen said you were easy going!" The driver laughed, already taking a liking to the young man he was transporting between medical facilities. "I'll go ahead and start the motor to get the air conditioning going. Hot or not, I don't drive without coffee and this is a five hour trip, so I'm going to go fetch a refill before we head out. There's already bottled water packed, anybody want anything else?"

Seeing the negative head shakes, he strode back into the hospital, thermos dangling from one hand. His partner closed one of the panel doors at the rear of the ambulance, pausing a moment before shutting the other one.

"Since this is a medically stable transport and you're officially discharged from the hospital, Henry's the only one going." He fished a cord from below the gurney, placing it in Frank's hand. "This works just like the call bell in your room, press the button and he'll stop. Your mother's welcome to sit in the back with you until Henry's ready to pull out, but then she'll have to ride up front, ok?"

Frank and Laura both nodded, but Laura did climb in to sit beside her son for the meantime. She smiled again, loosening the nylon restraints slightly before tracing her finger down his cheek.

Her older son fidgeted a bit under the scrutiny. "What?"

"Sorry, just thinking."

"Ooo-kay. About anything in p-particular?"

"Yes. I'm grateful. I know we're still headed for a rehab center, but you're finally out of the hospital. Ever since those men dragged you away from our hotel, I've been so afraid for you, Frank. First you were imprisoned, then lost, then terribly ill, and even here this week I was frightened you'd decide to take off after Joe somehow." She hurried her thoughts along when she sensed Frank's pending interruption. "I know you still have mixed feelings about that one and you're only here because I asked you to stay. Fenton **will** take care of your brother, we have to trust that, honey. Anyway, thank you. This is the first day I've felt like you're really going to be ok."

"I'm f-fine, Mom."

Laura hid a sniffle by kissing her son on the forehead. "I know. Humor your mother, will ya? You and Joe are growing up too quick and I'm entitled to these occasional overly sentimental days to dote on my boys before they leave, ok?" She managed a half baked chuckle by the end.

"Joe and I aren't g-going anywhere." _Least not intentionally..._

Any further musings on the wonders of impending adulthood were lost in the rapping of knuckles against the dingy window separating them from the cab of the ambulance.

"I think that's my cue." Laura half stood, even her petite stature exceeding the roof of the truck. "You sure you're all right back here by yourself?"

"Of course. P-pass me one of those bottles of water and I'll see you at the first rest stop."

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Laura slid into the cab of the ambulance, a growing contentment warming her as much as the spring sun filtering through the glass. Until Frank had actually allowed the medics to help him from his wheelchair onto the stretcher, she'd been convinced he would find a way to sneak out of the hospital, his urge to seek his brother overwhelming any realistic assessment of his physical state. He'd improved immensely in the past weeks, even managing unassisted steps, but there was no way he could undertake a rescue mission. She knew what she'd asked of him, and she couldn't begin to express how grateful she was to her son, to God, to whatever had gotten Frank into the back of the truck today.

Even now a shadow of the anxiety she'd felt all week lingered, a sense that something could still go horribly wrong, but she squelched it, certain it was only the after effects of prolonged worry. The greater feeling that reaching the rehabilitation hospital meant safety for both of them overpowered the residual fear as the ambulance merged onto the highway, and Laura intentionally focused on that, shoving the other away.

The click of the automatic door locks snapped her revere, the noise somehow triggering the thought that whether she was correct or not, the rehab was still five hours away. The sensation that this was a suddenly insurmountable distance inexplicably overwhelmed her, the warmth of the day instantly replaced by a cold sweat.

The eerie transition came a second before another click filled the small space, one any detective's wife could identify with horrid certainty. The cocking of a gun. Her head snapped toward the driver, mouth opened to demand an explanation from Henry, when everything froze.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hardy. I am so pleased to renew our charming acquaintance. The drive will present a delightful opportunity to catch up; that is the proper expression is it not? Before that, though, I am afraid I must insist you accept my hospitality gift. Try them on please, and loop them through the door handle if you will."

It took Laura three tries to fasten the offered handcuffs around her wrists, both hands now attached firmly to the passenger door. Some distant part of her mind wondered if her trembling might vibrate the door from its hinges, but if that part of her brain worked, the portion responsible for speech deserted her. _That little glimmer of fear... I ignored it. Intentionally, systematically dismissed it, determined to be happy. I'm sorry, Frank, I knew better... How many times have encouraged Joe to listen to his intuition? And will I ever have the opportunity to do that again?_

"Mrs. Hardy? Laura? The drive will be rather tedious if we maintain this silence. If you have nothing to say, shall I pull over and initiate a conversation with Frank instead? I do detest boredom when I travel."

"N-no."

"No, what?"

Laura fought down a wave of panic, willing it to dissipate with each darting breath. "No, I'll talk to you, Clipboard. Stay away from my son."

"For now, my dear. For now. What shall we discuss?"

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to be continued...


	22. Chapter 22

**CHAPTER 21**

 _What in the world?..._

Frank frowned at the slosh of water on his t-shirt before spotting the half empty bottle propped on his chest. He didn't recall falling asleep without putting the lid back on it, but obviously that was what happened. Funny, he didn't think he'd been that tired. He stretched his left arm over his head, then pulled the wrist in front of his face and frowned at it. Although he'd lost the engraved watch he'd received for his eighteenth birthday, he was certain the inexpensive replacement his mother bought him had been on his arm this morning. Somehow its absence now was feeding a growing sense of unease.

He closed his eyes, trying to pin down exactly what was bothering him. The ambulance rocked side-to-side, but it didn't seem to be traveling all that fast. He'd memorized the interstate route to Princeton, and while there were some mountainous areas on I-77, none of it should be this good at doubling for the new roller coaster at Cedar Point. Barring a truly unique detour, they were on the wrong road.

The windowless ambulance didn't provide a reference point, but Frank wouldn't have recognized the area anyway, assuming they were anywhere near the small West Virginia town that was their intended destination. Joe had been in the general vicinity on a white water kayaking trip two years ago, but not feeling any particular urge to strap himself into an artificial hollowed out log and battle world class rapids with an oversized ping pong paddle, Frank hadn't come along. His brother had laughed at him for a week, gleefully pointing out that after a lifetime beside Barmet Bay, he was scarcely worried about drowning in a few feet of water.

Frank waited another ten or fifteen minutes, hoping they were off the interstate for a strange detour or rest stop, but the hairpin turns continued. Sighing, he pressed the call button. Maybe there was a simple explanation. Five attempts to signal the driver later, the last three accompanied by a hefty smack on the metallic wall of vehicle, and he didn't think so.

The ambulance finally slowed to a halt, Frank tensing as the interior chrome door handle rotated. He'd already attempted to remove the nylon strapping holding him to the gurney, but the buckles were below the mattress level and no amount of stretching allowed him to reach them. He had managed to unscrew one of the unused IV poles mounted on the upper corner of the bed, the two foot pipe now grasped tightly in his left hand. He cocked the arm back just as the door swung open, determined to make his first blow count if it came to that.

"Frank!" His potential victim let out a startled gasp.

"M-mom." Frank let out a long breath and lowered his fist. "I wasn't sure it was y-you."

"Of course it's me, honey-bunny, who else would be back here checking on you? You still tucked in all tight and snuggy?" Laura's bright smile was accompanied by a shrill giggle that bore no resemblance to the warm laugh her son could hear in a thousand memories.

 _Honey-bunny? Snuggy?_ "Uh, yeah, tucked in fine. Everything ok?"

"Of course. I thought you'd be sleeping still, curly top; you never could stay awake in the car. We'll be there soon."

"You knew I wasn't asleep, Mom. I've been p-pushing the call button for a good while." _And nobody has ever called me curly top, I've got a few waves at best. Joe got called that a time or two, but not after he got big enough to put a stop to it... and Joe's the one that can't stay awake in a car, too.._

"Oh, that thing. I figured it must be stuck it went off so much." Laura patted her son on his knee, the weird smile fading a bit.

"Then why'd you c-come back here if you thought the b-bell was a false alarm?" Frank watched her as closely as he could, afraid to push the question too far. _Come on Mom, what is it you want me to know?_

"I missed you, sweetie! We stopped for the restroom and it gave me a chance to say howdy. Since you really were ringing the call bell, though, is there something you need?"

 _Howdy. Right. What I need is a reason for Henry to come back here..._ Frank scanned the small interior of the van, reluctant to concoct any excuse that might frighten his mother into thinking he was actually ill. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he went with the only other explanation he could come up with on short notice. "You two aren't the only ones thinking it's time for a bathroom break. Could you, uh, ask H-Henry to help me."

The flash of panic in his mother's eyes was unmistakable if brief. "Oh, Frankie, we're almost there. You shouldn't have had all that water. You know, we always did have to stop the car for you on trips. Every time we drove to Gertrude's, you'd want to stop before we even got out of Bayport. Did the same thing on the way to Mike Collig's place too. This time you're just going to have to hold it." Laura leaned over and caught her son in a firm hug. "See you in about an hour, sweetie pie."

Frank returned the embrace automatically, still turning her words over in his head as the door closed. He'd bet good money that his mother was sent back here to calm him down after the incessant button pressing, especially once he'd added the bongo accompaniment. On the surface, she more or less seemed to do that. Underneath, however... _Mom's a sweet natured person, but not saccharine sweet like that, she had to know that was going to set off alarms. And the curly hair thing, the car naps, the having a bladder the size of a pea as a kid - all of that was Joe, not me. And we definitely didn't drive to Gertrude's, she lives with us half the time and Nana the other half. Mike Collig? What's Ezra's brother got to do with anything? I think we met him once at the station, and... and... he lives in West Virginia!_

 _So, we are in West Virginia, but we're not driving to where we should be. Is that what I'm supposed to get out of that? What about Joe though? There's no way she's learned anything new about him since we climbed in this truck. Unless she just meant think about Joe, not like I wasn't anyway. Joe's in Ranei... This mess has to do with Ranei... well, that's pretty obvious. If there's a problem now, it almost has to do with the island... only Joe could attract a whole new disaster in the thick of this one and that's not a talent I aspire to... I hope to heck that's not what she meant... No, think about Joe... think about Joe... No! She was suggesting I was like Joe! Not think_ _ **about**_ _Joe, think_ _ **like**_ _Joe... trouble and think like Joe... ... equals come out swinging..._

Frank resigned himself to remaining confused as the ambulance lurched back onto rough road. Laura's odd behavior had put him on alert, and perhaps he was over-analyzing. Maybe 'be wary' was the whole message. That he could certainly do. He shifted a little, surprised when the binding around his chest fell away. _That hug!... way to go, Mom..._

At a rough guess, Frank estimated they travelled another hour before they stopped for good, perhaps the last twenty minutes on a dirt road. He eased himself onto the edge of the stretcher and scooted down to the end of the thin vinyl mattress, the pole once again clasped in his fist. Hopefully no one would expect him to be this close to the door.

The white metal door swung outward and Frank drove his left hand out with it, half ready to check the punch if his mother was the one there. She wasn't.

The pipe caught Clipboard across his cheek, opening a narrow cut and propelling the man backward a step. He caught his balance and launched himself toward Frank, smiling when he saw angry recognition light the teenager's eyes. His return volley landed a quick light hit into Frank's chest followed by a stronger one on the right shoulder, the padding of the sling offer scant protection.

Frank allowed the blow to his shoulder to topple him down to the mattress, knowing the beleaguered joint couldn't absorb the force of the blow. He kicked out with as much force as he could muster on the way down, planting his left foot in Clipboard's sternum. Even in his weakened state, the shove as he straightened his leg was enough to dislodge the smaller man from where he'd been standing on the narrow steel bumper.

"MOM?! You th-there?" Frank found yelling through the renewed fire in his shoulder nearly impossible, but a sudden desperation to hear her voice had set in as soon as he realized the Raneian officer was inexplicably driving his ambulance in the rural Appalachian mountains. "MOM!? Answer me!" _Please answer..._

He dropped to his knees beside the gurney, knowing he wouldn't be able to negotiate the hunched posture the low truck ceiling required without falling, and peered out at the ground. Clipboard was picking himself up off rich black earth dappled with leaf litter and patches of silver-green moss.

"What did you do?! What d-did you do to her?!" Panic added a snarl to the inquiry. "MOM?!"

"Calm yourself, Mr. Hardy, there is no reason to disturb the entire forest to speak to someone a mere three feet away. My hearing is excellent." The militia colonel stepped out of Frank's reach, aware the usually stronger youth hadn't fully recovered from his prior injuries.

Unable to stand quickly enough to continue the brawl, Frank threw the metal pole he held, initially pleased when it struck the officer in the chest and knocked him to his tail on the soil. Any elation proved short lived, however. The colonel rolled to the side rather than scrambling up again, giving him the time he needed to retrieve his firearm from its shoulder holster.

Frank moved his hands in front of him, palms out, conceding this particular battle was lost. The exertion of one decent punch and kick had exhausted all the energy reserves he had, and he hadn't even made it to his feet. For the hundredth time since awakening in the hospital, his limited physical ability disgusted him. "Where's m-my mother?"

"Get up, Mr. Hardy."

Frank slid his feet over the edge of the ambulance deck, carefully standing. "I asked y-you a question."

"And I am attempting to answer it. I shall not answer any others, young man, so I suggest you follow instructions and be silent. Step to the passenger side door." Clipboard saw Frank's glance at the silver four point cane in the rear corner of the ambulance. "You will not need that. Leave it."

Trailing his better hand along the white paint to steady his steps, Frank rounded the corner and instantly froze, two heart-stopping sights competing for his attention. The ground beside the rear tire cut sharply inward, leaving no more than a path around the medical vehicle. Beyond that, a vertigo inspiring drop sloped sharply down to a stream far below, the white burbling water and jagged stones visible in snatches between dense trees. His mother leaned against the open cab door at the edge of the precipice, handcuffed to the interior handgrip. A large swath of duct tape covered the lower portion of her face.

"Mom? You alright?" The hand landing on his spine nearly sent him over the edge.

"As I recall, I asked you at our first meeting if you were the class dunce and your ill tempered brother assured me that rampant stupidity was not among your vices. Perhaps we should arrange time to revisit that discussion if 'be silent' is not within concepts you are able to comprehend." Clipboard altered his stance, the nose of his gun coming to rest at the nape of Frank's neck.

Laura nodded quickly, afraid her son would risk speaking again and get himself shot, but Frank didn't appear reassured. At least he didn't say anything else.

"Quiet in a woodland encourages an appreciation of natural creation, would you not agree, Mrs. Hardy? I am going to allow you the opportunity to enjoy it while Frank and I avail ourselves of the excellent trail facilities here. Once we arrive at our guest quarters and I ensure that he is settled into the accommodations, I will return here." The colonel tugged lightly on the fabric of Frank's t-shirt, indicating he should back away from his mother. "As for your role in this, Frank, all you are expected to do is follow directions. When I return here, this ambulance will be making a journey over the rim of the mountain as it is simply too conspicuous to leave here. If you behave as a cooperative young gentleman, your mother and I will rejoin you as soon as that is accomplished. If you find yourself incapable of acceptable conduct, then Laura will be joining the truck on its travels over the cliff. Am I understood?"

Frank nodded, hoping he had the physical ability to comply. _I am not getting Mom killed in some rollover crash... I'm not... whatever it takes..._

"Delightful." Clipboard repositioned himself, his weapon now trained on Laura as he spoke to Frank. "Mr. Hardy, if you would kindly remove that sling and toss it over the ridge? There are too many hiding spots in a sling, I fear. That is fine, thank you. The shirt as well , please."

Frank struggled out of the white cotton shirt, his right arm still awkward to maneuver when dressing. He stifled an exasperated sigh when Clipboard gestured at his tennis shoes as well. _Not like I was going to sprint away somewhere..._

He accepted a second pair of handcuffs without comment, clicking them shut when the colonel pointed at his hands. Somehow confining his wrist in any fashion in front of this man released a floodgate of memories that nearly dropped Frank where he stood. _That cell... that tiny little cell and the ceiling cuff... can't go there... not now... not ever_... Wrenching his thoughts away from a prison burned down three months past, he returned to the present, not that it was that much better.

The silent hike away from the parked ambulance permitted Frank far too much time to ponder his present predicament. Clipboard had his mother hostage - and how on earth did he get here in the first place? His mother certainly didn't tell anyone where they were going, and while Aunt Gertrude and his physician in Bayport knew he was alive, they didn't have information as to where he was now. That left Fenton, Joe, and a handful of Network agents that had made the medical admission arrangements. The Network staff were all stateside, and they all worked closely with Arthur Gray. The only people Clipboard might have had access to that had the details were his father and brother. _They wouldn't have told, though... not unless... unless... God, what did you do to them, Clipboard?... Are they?... No, don't go there... don't... Can't walk anymore..._

Tree roots and exposed stone tripped Frank at every turn and lower branches swiped at him as he couldn't raise his hands to defend against the vegetation of the little used pathway. At least recent heavy rains had softened the ground, preventing serious aggravation to his injuries, but every several steps the teen stopped to gasp in air and rest trembling legs. He rarely made it a dozen strides without falling all together, quickly becoming a dirt streaked mess. If he took too long in regaining momentum, the colonel hauled him up by the first body part he could grab, regardless of what that might be, so Frank perfected a crawling scamper to use when he absolutely couldn't stand, any indignity preferable to endangering Laura. By the end of the forty minute hike, Clipboard's face could have doubled as an art exhibit entitled unrepentant rage.

The officer halted in a small clearing, thigh high blowing grass liberally sprinkled with daisies and primrose surrounding a small log cabin while a ring of may apple and fern separated the tiny glade from the eastern hardwood forest encompassing it. Tugging Frank up the three steps into the structure, he cursed when the youth fell yet again, the unstained wood plank step and its associated splinters pressed into his side. The forty minute time frame disturbed Clipboard; it shouldn't have required a third of that to make it to the cabin without the stumbling antics of an invalid.

The inside of the cabin contained a kitchen set along the same wall as the off center front entry, a black pot bellied stove and a large grey stack-stone fireplace complete with roasting rack being its main feature. The butcher block counter boasted a double porcelain sink and a hand pump for well water. A cream painted wooden table and four chairs occupied the opposite corner, with an oval shaped braided rug in a half dozen shades of blue covering most of the wide planked oak floor between them.

A narrow staircase consisting of rough carved treads nailed to base log rose near the short wall adjacent to the door, leading to a half loft that overhung the sparsely furnished rectangular room. A double bed and its navy plaid flannel comforter were nestled below, while the remainder of the room had a ceiling open to the peaked rafters above. Other than the painted table, every other wooden structure in the place, from the oak flooring to the log walls and ceiling to the walnut bed frame and the loft railing above it, were hand hewn and stained a rich brown.

Clipboard permitted his captive a moment to adjust to the dim interior light, then pointed. "Up the stairs."

A low groan escaped Frank before he could squelch it. He wasn't at all sure he could get up there. Half lurching to the bottom step, he swayed and then abruptly turned around to sit, not entirely intentionally. Getting no reaction from the armed colonel, he chose not to stand again, bracing his hands against each step, his weight on the left one as much as possible, and bumped up on his behind. By the time he cleared the tenth and final step his insides felt like he'd completed the iron man triathlon during a heat wave - twice.

"Oh no, Mr. Hardy, we will not be lounging about at the top of the stairs risking an ill timed tumble. I intend to spend the next few days relaxing in our mountain home and renewing our acquaintance, not staring at your corpse after you accidently break your neck. Not that your demise is not an integral component of my vacation itinerary, as I am certain you have surmised, but there is no need for haste. Sit in the chair."

Frank fought to raise his chin from his chest to even find the alleged chair, but after long seconds of blinking sweat out of his eyes and panting, he rose to his knees and primarily crawled to the lone pine seat. It was a traditional hardback chair with a rush woven seat and three wide slats forming the straight back, while a broad armrest curved outward on each side. The round carved legs were intercepted by a narrow spindle about eight inches off the floor to serve as a foot rest. Propping his left elbow on the seat, he levered himself upward.

"I would prefer if you would straddle the chair and face the back of it please. Keep your bottom at the forward edge."

 _Sure, not a problem... maybe I could stand on it on one foot and juggle for you, too..._ The next thirty seconds took an hour, but Frank slowly managed to lift each foot and angle it through the space between the chair's flat surface and the armrest before collapsing into the seat. Clipboard had to catch him once and assist him in lifting his right leg, but Frank was far too tired to take advantage of that.

A low bookcase crammed with volumes formed part of the railing separating the loft from the bedroom area below it and Clipboard placed his gun on the shelves, convinced he could control Frank without it for the time being. He selected the first of several lengths of rope from the same shelf and rapidly began to secure his prize.

 _Bet that doesn't usually come with the place_... It took a while to sink in, but Frank had noticed a small plaque outside the cabin door labeled Babcock, lodge 8. While declaring the structure a lodge might be pushing it, even considering the two twin beds he'd just spotted in the loft, the tag was enough to tell him this was some sort of a park rental. _Hope the park cabin comes with a nosy park ranger... where's Yogi?... no, he was the bear... the ranger's name was... heck, I can't remember..._ His mind wandered a little more as the bonds pulled tight, straining joints barely healed from his last encounter with revolutionary zealot.

Clipboard picked Frank's feet up, tying each ankle to the footrest rung on that side and then looping the rope through the back of each knee before knotting it off around the armrest. With Frank's knees bent and pulled to waist level and his feet off the floor, he wouldn't be moving the chair anywhere. Satisfied with that, the colonel unlocked the handcuffs, picking off a few tufts of weeds that had lodged on them during one or another of Frank's assorted falls.

"Lean forward. I want you to place your hands and your chin over the top of the slats." Aggravated when a dazed Frank took too long to obey, Clipboard jerked his head forward by the hair. "This procedure is not that complicated, Mr. Hardy. I trust you do remember that your mother is relying on your ability to respect my wishes."

He draped the teen's arms over the top rung of the chair back, the wood digging into the armpit, as he straightening each limb along the vertical post that formed both the lateral edge of the seatback and the rear leg of the chair on that side. Wrapping wrist to shoulder with another piece of cotton rope, Clipboard was certain Frank was completely immobile. He brought the remaining ends of the rope together behind the youth's neck, securing them just tight enough to force his Adam's apple against the wood. Frank would be able to breathe fine, but he'd have to think about it.

"There we are, Frank. You did dawdle excessively, but I was pleased with your decision to refrain from annoying chatter. I believe overall this merits asking Mrs. Hardy to join us. I do prefer her company to yours in any event. I shall retrieve your mother and we will join you shortly." Clipboard ran a single finger from the base of Frank's skull to the waist of his grey sweatpants, tracing every vertebrae en route. "Wait here."

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to be continued...


	23. Chapter 23

**CHAPTER 22**

 _I will never whine about being on a stakeout again... never, as long as I live... if I live..._. Joe squeezed his eyes shut tight as another wave crashed over him, warm salt surf insinuating itself into his ears and nostrils and then clinging stubbornly to lashes and brows as the tide yanked away from the shore. For now he was winning the brief skirmishes as the waters raced over the sand, only to retreat half a moment later into the sea; but he wouldn't win the war. Every surge held him under just a second longer, retreated just a fraction less.

The water left again and he sputtered his way through a coughing spasm, jerking his chin sideways to flip sodden hair from his eyes. The tide had hollowed out the rough sand beneath him, allowing his head to settle even further below his trunk during the brief respites between battles. Each time the surf left him, he furiously tugged at the stakes pinning him to the ground. They shifted slightly, but each wave filled grit back in around the sticks, negating most of his hard won gains. Joe couldn't imagine simply lying motionless, waiting on the ocean to kill him, but he didn't really think his attempts to free himself were going to succeed. They would, given enough time, but that he didn't have. _Term stakeout is taking on a whole new meaning... stakeout... staked out... great, I'm making really lousy jokes... is being delusional some sort of first stage of drowning?... I sure hope not... Twenty thousand leagues under the sea... I really need to know how that dude did that... but he had some submarine thing, didn't he?... crud..._

Colder water began to pelt at him even when the brine retreated, large drops initially splatting, raising goose bumps among the bruises . It shortly transformed into a deluge, the deep purple-grey clouds fulfilling their earlier promise of a truly phenomenal storm. In other circumstances, Joe would have been impressed with the rapid transformation from a gloomy but warm seaside day to a tropical gale seemingly determined to become a typhoon. Of course, those circumstances would require a nice sturdy house to hide out in, and an absence of revolution-preaching lunatics wouldn't hurt his feelings any either.

 _Great, maybe I'm not going to drown after all. I'm going to get struck by lightning instead..._

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"Go! Now! I said MOVE!" Shuman shrieked over the wind to make himself heard, hands cupped around his mouth. The half dozen guards who could understand him relayed his instructions in their native tongue to the surrounding staff, but it really wasn't necessary. No one on the beach needed any encouragement to haul tail off of it. Soldiers rapidly uncuffed the laboring prisoners and herded them back toward the bamboo barracks. The rain drove sideways in sheets, propelling loose palm fronds, scrap building materials, driftwood, and marble sized hail into the hide of every living thing on the island, while the palm trunks flexed nearly double under the onslaught.

"Anda mau meninggal? Gerakkan pantat anda, budak, sekarang!"

Lightning glowing more blue than white struck into the stand of palms at the edge of the sand, the tallest one erupting in sparks that converted into char almost instantly, the rain stifling the fire before it had the opportunity to begin. The crack of the strike rumbled with a boom that literally shook the ground beneath the fleeing men, a few unmoving on the earth afterward.

"GET ALL THE SOLDIERS AND AS MANY OF THESE GRUNTS INTO THE FINISHED BUILDINGS AS YOU CAN! MOVE!" Shuman barked at a new group even as he sought out Rao, unable to see more than a few feet in the maelstrom. They were going to lose men before this was over, there was no getting around that, but if they could separate out the stronger prisoners to shelter and let the rest fend for themselves out here, then the building project shouldn't fall too far behind. Certainly a stronger wall before this sort of weather could strike again was a must, but the first priority of the night was surviving it. Shuman grimaced at his subconscious use of the word night. It couldn't be much past three in the afternoon, but the sky was nearly dark now. "RAO? RAO!? WHERE ARE YOU?"

"WHAT?" The huge militia officer bellowed back, barely hearing the other man from thirty feet away. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

Nicholas jogged closer, able to lower his voice a notch. "That's the last bunch except for the ten that are at the boat launch, but I haven't been able to get a head count. A few boys might've gotten away."

"We don't have time to look unless you're keen on getting flattened by a tree or torched. They aren't going to survive out here anyway. Let's go!" Rao headed for the trees at a dead run, annoyed when Shuman called out to him again.

"WHAT ABOUT HARDY? HE'S STILL ON THE SAND."

"THERE'S NO TIME TO GO DOWN THERE! LEAVE HIM!"

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"And the white ones? They seem particularly attractive, but rather fragile. Perchance they are deceptively stronger than their appearance suggests to flourish in the forest without the care of a gardener. Like you, I suspect, Mrs. Hardy. You are proving to be surprisingly resilient underneath a delicate exterior. Can you identity the blossoms for me?" Clipboard walked immediately behind the handcuffed woman, conversationally pointing out the mountain flora.

Laura ground her teeth together before she answered, reminding herself that another slap for refusing to speak wouldn't help her son in the least. "They're trillium lilies."

"They have a lovely name then, as well. How appropriate. The spring day is delightful, Mrs. Hardy, is it not? The air after a rain always has an exhilaration that defies verbal description and yet is definitively recognizable in every part of the world. A day such as this should be spent with a beautiful woman, Laura, don't you agree? May I call you Laura?"

"No, you may not, and I'd just assume spend the day with my son."

Clipboard spun her around by her elbow, taking several seconds to replace a hard sneer with the more congenial expression he typically wore. "The walk to the cabin is a brief one, I assure you. I am reluctant to abandon proper decorum, but I am afraid I simply must call you Laura. Mrs. Hardy is a undeniable reminder that you are another man's wife and that is a fact I prefer to ignore."

Laura held her breath as he brushed the back of his fingers along her cheek, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Her reply came out softer than she would have liked, the slightest hint of a tremor underneath. "Ignoring a fact doesn't change it, Colonel."

"Perhaps, Laura, perhaps not. A point of contention that we should defer to a later discussion, I expect, as you are so eager to see your offspring. An understandable desire on your part as he is a child charmingly favored in appearance if not behavior. I am not at all convinced I have ever encountered eyes quite that shade." Clipboard began to walk again, propelling his petite captive before him.

Laura paled as the implications of that comment sank in. Frank's eyes were beautiful, a warm toffee swirl that always seemed to hold a mysterious secret he was just on the verge of telling, with ebony lashes long enough to graze his sunglasses. The mention of shade, though, meant something else entirely. Ever since the boys were infants she'd fielded enough comments about their eyes to hopelessly embarrass the pair of them a hundred times over, but shade meant Joe, every single time. Somehow, this horrible excuse for a man had gotten close enough to her other child to note the color of his eyes. Keeping her sanity intact was proving challenging enough knowing Frank was in his grasp. She wasn't sure she could manage it if he had Joe as well.

"What do you mean?"

"I believe the statement was clear. Joseph's eyes are a most unusual color. Surely, you have been told this on previous occasions?"

"Y-yes. When," Laura mentally cursed as her voice wavered, "when did you see Joe? Is he here?"

"Alas, no." The officer halted behind Laura, waving her into the log house. "A few days have transpired since I had the pleasure of his company. Frank, however, awaits. Shall we?"

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 _YES!_ Joe congratulated himself as he freed his left hand from the sand, waving the limb above him in triumph. The wooden spike dangled from his arm, but at the moment he could care less about that, as oblivious to the tight hemp cutting into his wrist as he was to the hail peppering his face and chest. The victory celebration was abruptly curtailed as the next onslaught of cresting water engulfed him, the force of the brine flattening him below the surface once more. He choked out water halfway through the following sit up, unable to rise any further while his right arm remained tethered, but grateful to have his nose above the surf. He could feel the muscles in his stomach and thighs begin to quiver ever so slightly, but he held himself there, half up and half down on the sharply inclined beach, the storm and the waves both intent on battering him backward. He twisted his torso, grasping his right elbow with his left hand and yanking, praying to excavate that stake as well before he really did drown. That fate had become progressively less tolerable now that an alternative loomed just out of reach. The fierce whistling of the weather swallowed the grunts that escaped him as he struggled, sharp pain streaking through his bruised ribs and the impaled skin of his hand. _One sport practice or another, I bet I've done ten thousand sit ups and crunches... have to remember to thank the coach for every last blessed one of them..._

Roughly callused hands grabbed at Joe's ankle at the same instant he finally pulled his upper body free, eliciting a confused spiral of emotions. He hadn't expected any one to return for him once the tempest broke loose, assuming Rao would be more than content to allow him to suffocate under the waves. If he was being pulled from the sand, though, it was only to return to being the prisoner of a gorilla nearly twice his size that seemed determined to inflict as much harm as possible before murdering him. Overall, it might be preferable to see if King Triton tortured his guests _. Yeah, wouldn't mind investigating that... if I didn't have to die first to do it..._

"Quit squirming away from me, for Pete's sake!" The voice was raspy and harsh in the attempt to out-scream mother nature.

"Let me go!" So maybe getting left alone to drown wasn't all that logical a request, but Joe had been pushed about as far as he could tolerate, regardless of the consequences. "Get your hands off me!"

"What is it you think I'm going to do, Joe? Wrap your arms around my neck and help me pull."

Even the surf seemed to hit the pause button, if only in Joe's mind. He peered through the relentless rain, having trouble focusing on the figure hunched over his leg, head bowed against the downpour. Tangled, dripping sun-blonde hair brushed the shoulders and swung forward to snarl into a scraggly red gold beard. The bare torso sported half-healed bruises scattered over a thin ribcage barely on the acceptable side of gaunt, only a strong musculature in his chest and shoulders preventing the man from looking ill. _Nah... can't be... but..._

"Chet?"

The blonde head nodded, still pulling at the bound ankle. "Yes, Chet. Who were you expecting, Robinson Crusoe?"

"Thank God. I was trying to find you, came here to rescue you, actually. Well, not here, exactly, but to Ranei. Getting here was sort of a kidnapped thing, but then that's probably how you got here, too, huh?"

"Joe?" Chet steered his friend's arms around his neck and leaned uphill, afraid the water would claim them both. He continued to shout his questions. "Did you hit your head?"

"A few times. Not that hard - today anyway." The younger Hardy tried to shift his momentum to help loosen his legs, even more determined than before. If he couldn't escape, the rapidly rising sea would kill his friend as well, and he very much doubted Chet would be willing to leave him.

"No concussion?"

"Don't think so."

"Then shut up and help me. You're rambling." Unsuccessful at prying Joe's ankles from the beach-turned-sea-floor, he'd begun rapidly scooping the subsurface sand from around the stakes.

"Uh, ok." After the past four days, Joe was willing to concede a less than clear thought process. Besides, breathing and digging in the storm took all the energy his injured body could produce.

Both of them found themselves repeatedly submerged with lungs at the bursting point, finally able to gasp a breath at the last second time after time. Lightning strikes wandered dangerously close, adding another layer of deadly urgency to the battle. "Chet, you have to go! Leave!"

The older boy spat out a mouthful of water and waited for wracking coughs to subside before he answered. "Can't!"

"I'm stuck but you're not - GO!"

"I'm waiting on some guy named Joe Hardy to rescue me. You heard of him?!"

"For God's sake Chet, GO!" Joe didn't want to die on this beach; he'd been trying to avoid it with frantic desperation for what felt like hours, but the only thing worse he could imagine was taking Morton down with him.

"NO!"

Sensing any further attempt to dislodge Chet from his side was pointless, Joe redoubled his effort to pull free, stunned when it actually worked. Both of them continued tugging and digging for a moment, then broke into baffled grins.

"Come on!" Chet draped Joe's arm over a shoulder and hoisted him upward, dragging him along in a bizarrely stooped combination of crouching and running.

The sudden change to standing on a leg sporting a bullet hole set off vertigo and nausea that left Joe completely reliant on his friend for balance and direction. "Am I rescuing you yet?"

"Definitely, doing a bang up job of it, too. I'll just follow you from up here in the lead, if you don't mind."

Joe nodded, then let his chin drop to his chest. "Yeah, that's good... Real... uh... good."

Chet felt the increased weight on his shoulder as Joe faded, but kept up his beeline for a pair of coconut palms with crossed trunks. They were the only landmark he could see through the precipitation and debris driven by the winds and he knew he had to get them both into the hollowed area beneath a larger tree ten yards beyond. He'd found the makeshift shelter early this morning.

Sliding into the entrance of his burrow and then hauling Joe in after him, Chet knelt in the corner, leaving most of the cramped natural floor space to stretch Joe out. The deep blue eyes focused on his paler ones after only a few seconds. "You ok?"

Joe considered that one. "Yeah, think so."

Chet raised an eyebrow at the bleeding leg, cuts, and bruises, but didn't contradict him. "Good, cause I wasn't kidding on that rescue thing. Once this hurricane stops, we have to figure out how to get away from here."

"Not sure it's a hurricane. Where's here?"

"Hell." Chet shook his head, chagrined. "Sorry, shouldn't have said that. Does it matter?"

"Don't worry about it." Joe face expressed an understanding of that sentiment that wasn't as easy to convert into words. "And no it doesn't matter... We'll figure something out."

Chet nodded, then opened his mouth to ask something, closing it again without saying a word.

"What?" Joe waited, but the question still didn't come. "Chet?"

"You're alone." He paused while Joe nodded. "Uh, Frank and Biff... are they de... are they ok?"

Joe managed a nervous smile. "Yeah, they're fine... Frank got hurt, but he's going to be fine. They're back home." There wasn't any purpose in continuing the act now that Rao knew his brother was alive, and Joe didn't have the heart to be more honest and tell Chet that while Frank **was** fine, that was quite probably no longer the case.

"I didn't know whether to be more afraid that you guys would turn up here, or that you wouldn't. Thank heaven they're safe."

The depth of the other youth's friendship rammed into Joe in a nearly palpable sense. No 'how could you go home and leave me here', no 'must be nice to get rescued instead of being abandoned and hungry, but then I wouldn't know', just thanks to heaven that his friends hadn't suffered the same fate. "I'm sorry, Chet. I'm so sorry... there wasn't a way to get here sooner. I... we... Frank really was hurt, horribly so... otherwise... we would have never..."

"Hey, Joe, I know that, ok? When did Frank ever let you troop off by yourself if it was remotely possible to stay with you? And from the looks of it, everything hasn't been all roses in your world, either. It's ok." The sincerity in the statement was unmistakable.

"Well, maybe not roses... still... I'm glad I found you... Thanks, Chet."

"For what?"

"Running out of the rock shelter... in Ranei."

"Oh, that. Water under the bridge, Joe. You'd have done the same."

"I'd like to think so... but I don't know."

"This from the guy who comes back here and gets himself shot looking for me."

"Yeah, well." The silence trailed on a bit, both reassuring and slightly awkward. Joe began to fidget, the emotions behind the comments not in the comfortable discussion range of teenaged young men. "You're wrong about... Robinson Crusoe, you know."

"What, Hardy?"

"You're wrong. In the entire wrong hemisphere. Crusoe was off the coast of Venezuela. Swiss Family Robinson is what you needed. That was East Indies. Lots closer."

Chet smiled, recognizing the topic shift for exactly that. "You really want to have this argument now?"

"Who's arguing? I'm just saying... you've got your... shipwreck characters wrong... You need to be... one of the... Swiss Family Robinson." Joe found himself stopping to cough and breathe between shorter and shorter phrases.

A fact that wasn't lost on Chet. "Rest, Hardy - or I'll make you be Gilligan."

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to be continued...


	24. Chapter 24

**.**

 **.**

 **CHAPTER 23**

He held his breath and strained to hear, closing his eyes even in the near pitch blackness in an attempt to mentally sort sounds. He acknowledged the slapping of branches, the droning pelt of rain into the mud, that soft sound struggling to compete with the more prominent howling of the wind. Overpowering staccato cracks split through everything else, the lightning too close to him to present itself as a rumble. A crescendo roar built again and then ebbed away in irregular gushes; the waves battering at the beach behind him. The plinking drum line of hail present an hour ago was gone now. Nothing else was discernable in the torrent.

Fenton shook his head, ignoring the splatters of water that abandoned his brunette waves as a result. Neither of the sounds he'd been listening for were present. No voices, which was almost certainly a good thing, and no aircraft, which wasn't. Not that he would have risked flying in this weather either. He wasn't a pilot, but he could imagine exactly what he would say to his elder son if he ever considered going up in this sort of gale. Still, the arrival of some back up might mean survival for the younger one.

Sighing, he swiped the rain from his face with a sodden shirt tail and crept further into the rainforest, angling along the rushing stream. If there was a militia base here, they had to have drinking water. _At least the trees are crammed too close together to have room to fall on my head..._

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"Frank? Come on baby, wake up. Frank? It's mom, honey." Laura leaned forward in her chair, her knees grazing her son's as she tried to get a better look at him. He was covered in dirt, with twigs and leaves intertwined in his hair. She sucked in her breath at the myriad of ropes biting into his skin, nearly hissing when she realized he couldn't raise his head. Sliding to the floor, she knelt in front of him, able to peer upward at his face. A large splotch of deep purple below his left eye coalesced into black at the angle of his jaw, and shallow scratches marred his face and chest. She cupped his chin in her hand. "Frank? Honey?"

Laura shifted her legs beneath her, the metal encircling her ankle clanking slightly on the wood planking of the loft floor. She spotted Clipboard climbing the stairs, a stoneware basin in his hands. "What did you do to my son!?"

The colonel ignored her, crossing the narrow room to place the shallow pan on the floor. He picked up the length of chain leading from Laura's ankle to the post of the twin bed against the wall, smiling when a tug proved it was secure. Returning to the chair his feminine captive had abandoned, he nonchalantly plopped into the seat. Stroking the golden hair of the woman now on the floor at his feet, he laughed - a stilted, perverse little sound that seemed to have nothing to do with humor. "I did not **do** anything to him, my dear. He is merely fatigued from his hike here. I am certain this is a phenomenon not unknown to mothers of overly active boys?"

"There's no way Frank could have hiked up here from the ambulance." Laura cringed as she recalled the painful struggles to walk even a dozen steps unaided that had plagued her oldest child over the past month. Yes, he'd been dramatically improving, and yes, her strong, athletic son could usually have run from wherever the heck they were to Bayport and back, but the idea that he'd somehow walked to the cabin was ludicrous. The realization that less than a mile's journey was beyond his capacity twisted at her heart.

The disconcerting cackle came again. "The funny thing, Laura, is that he did. Amazing what results the proper motivation can produce."

"Motivation?" Laura shook her head, trying to duck away from his hand as it strayed to the nape of her neck. "You threatened him again... you... you... bas-"

"Shhh, Laura, I would advise you not to stray into language that belies your status as a refined lady. Indeed, if you are not one, then I shall stop treating you as such." The officer stood after a condescending pat on her head, walking to the stairs. He paused at the top, gazing at her renewed efforts to awaken her son. "Shall we simply say he is quite fond of you."

"There's no need to keep him like this." Laura raised her eyes, carefully erasing animosity from her features. "He's no danger to you or anybody else. Let me move him over to the bed... please."

Clipboard appeared to consider the idea, then smiled. "No." Making his way down the steps, he called back to her. "And clean him up."

Laura closed her eyes, stilling a tremble that could serve no purpose here, and achieved a veneer of calm. Long seconds passed before she reached for the basin of water with a reasonably steady hand, finding the coarse cloth within. "Frank? It's mom. Please wake up for me baby. Just for a minute and then you can rest, but I need to know you're ok. Frank?"

"Uhhhmm... M-Mom?" The dark eyelashes fluttered as wet fabric slid across his cheek. _What's going on? Oh, Clipboard in the ambulance... but... that's crazy..._

"Yes, honey, it's Mom." She swirled the cloth through the water and wrung out the excess, wiping the last of the mud from his face. "Are you okay? He hit you again, I can see that much."

Frank gagged slightly as he tried to swallow against the chair rung digging into his throat. _Crazy... but somehow true anyway..._ "I'm... fine, Mom."

"You didn't answer me for a long time, Frank Hardy. You sure there's nothing else?" Laura moved to clearing the dirt from his back, pretending not to notice when his ears flushed pink with embarrassment. If the drying earth was hiding injuries, she needed to know, and he wasn't likely to be forthcoming. "Frank?"

"Nothing new... My arm h-hurts... I'm stiff... I'll live." Frank doubted that was the case, but adding to his mother's worry wasn't going to help anything. "How about you? D-did he hurt you?"

"No, I'm ok." Laura put the rag down and started to fumble with the knot behind Frank's neck. She ran her fingers along the cord, unable to locate a loose end.

"D-don't." Frank flinched as a sharper pain zinged through his shoulder, hoping his mom didn't see the small motion.

"What? Why not?" Laura continued to pluck at the ropes. "I think I can get these loose."

Frank shook his head minutely, the most the bizarre arrangement would allow. "It'll take too l-long and I couldn't r-run anyway. Finding me free will just tick him off."

"So I'm supposed to leave you like this?" Her voice shook, but she didn't care. Frank's concern was valid, but... but... she was his mother. Any other explanation wasn't necessary.

"Yes." Two masculine voices replied at once, one resigned, one smug.

"I see that you are awake again, Mr. Hardy; wonderful. I fear your mother was beginning to doubt my word that you are merely tired." Clipboard crossed behind Frank, dragging the second chair several feet away and gesturing at it. "Please be seated, Laura."

She hesitated, not wanting to leave Frank's side.

"Mom, p-please. I'll be fine." Frank fiercely wished he could lift his head enough to see what was going on. _Not going to be fine... not a snowball's chance..._

The colonel waited until she sat, then leaned against the bookcase while he spoke. "The mountains are charming, are they not? The stream even boasts by an antique gristmill closer to the main highway, but I fear we shall not have the opportunity to explore all of the surrounding environs. Our cabin, however, is well stocked, and I believe a pleasing vacation still awaits us. Or awaits me in any case. As you might suspect, commercial airlines are not a travel option I prefer to utilize and the members of your society sympathetic to my situation are not immediately available. Indeed, I am the perpetrator of my own misfortune, as I underestimated the time required to locate you once I arrived in the United States."

"And y-your friends here are?" Frank's long ingrained instincts to fish for information pushed the question out in spite of its futility.

"Ah, very good, Mr. Hardy, inquisitive to the end. And to think you and your father both attempted to convince me you are merely a schoolboy victimized by an ill-timed birthday. Thank you for proving the folly of that notion." Clipboard squatted down, inspecting Frank's back more closely. "It scarred rather less than I expected. Perhaps I should inform Rao that he is not as proficient as he believes."

Frank couldn't suppress a shiver at the fingers on his skin.

"Leave him alone!"

"Laura, my dear, Frank and I are only talking. A gentleman's conversation amongst those on opposite sides of political philosophy. I am certain your son is enjoying the discourse. You are, Frank, are you not?"

"Yeah, it's p-peachy." The colonel's hand slid up his spine, pressing his neck progressively harder against the chair, forcing Frank to channel all his efforts into drawing air. _Can't breathe... again... really... can't... breathe..._

"Perhaps we should discuss something else, then." Clipboard eased the pressure on his palm, gratified by the loud gasp that followed. "Interesting sound, that. The sound of life re-entering a body pushed to the edge of viability. Joseph produces a charmingly lyric version of that sound."

Frank heaved air in and out, sweat trickling into his eyes. "J-Joe? Wh-where's my b-brother?"

Clipboard spun at a creak in the floor, slapping Laura as she approached too closely behind him. The thump as she landed elicited yet another smile.

"N-N-No!" Frank dug his fingertips into the wood beneath them, unable to stop the colonel from striking his mother.

"Your chair is over there, Laura. Are we clear?" Clipboard pulled his fist back, punching hard into Frank's ribs.

"Stop! Please, stop! We're clear, but please... don't hit him again..." Laura scrambled backward until she bumped into the pine leg of the chair she had vacated, then slid her way into the rush woven seat. "I'll sit. I'll sit right here, but please..."

"Groveling is unbecoming. None the less, I have no objection to returning to conversation for a few more moments, as long as Frank is agreeable and you remain seated. After all, I was not the one to interrupt our discussion."

"What d-do you want to talk about?" Frank tried to turn his head far enough to see if Laura was alright, but couldn't. _Have to keep his attention on me... have to... can't act afraid... now if I could figure out how not to_ _ **be**_ _afraid..._

"Rao would be a fitting topic. It is such a shame that you shall never have the opportunity to compare experiences with your brother, although I suppose dying on separate continents precludes that. The underlying situations are different, however, so the analysis might be less enlightening than desired in any event."

 _Dying? Joe? No, can't be... wanted to be wrong... I needed to be wrong..._ _Joe..._ "H-how so?"

"Joseph was detained for excessive curiosity and delivered to Rao in the pursuit of information. A different circumstance altogether from the trial and conviction of a spy. You are aware, of course, that I have no option but to carry out your sentence, Frank?"

"I'm s-sure you see it th-that way."

"It is not a matter of how I see it. You were convicted in a court of Ranei's true government. However, let us not quibble. I suppose, having easily located you, I should find a way to inform Rao that his interrogation expertise is not necessary."

Frank coughed, but not quickly enough to disguise the start of a relieved laugh.

"Not the reaction I had expected, Mr. Hardy. Please, if I have inadvertently overlooked a source of amusement, I would appreciate enlightenment."

"You said **is** n-not necessary, not **was** n-not necessary. Joe's still alive."

"Perhaps I misspoke."

"N-not likely." Frank shook his head. "Your sp-speech patterns are arrogant, egotistical, and a-annoying, but always precise. Joe's alive."

"Touché. Although Rao has had ample opportunity to rectify that condition since my departure."

"Maybe. He d-didn't get me. He won't get Joe." _Don't make a liar out of me, little brother... please don't... one of us has to get out of this alive... and I don't think it's going to be me..._

"I would not have thought your prior exposure to Rao would have inspired such optimism. Tell me, after everyone departed the courtroom and I left you alone with Rao, what happened?"

"Y-you know what h-happened. He t-took m-me to the g-g-gallows. It w-was your order that s-sent m-me there." An unpleasant tickle of nausea surprised Frank, as did the sudden worsening in his stammer.

"That occurred hours later, directly before daybreak. Come, Frank, satisfy my curiosity as to the hobbies of my underlings. How did you and Rao entertain yourselves? I am sure your mother would be interested as well. We all have a few days to spend together; regale us with the tale."

"N-no." The nausea grew, joined by the first stirrings of dizziness and an inability to breathe wholly unrelated to the rope about his neck. _He cut me down from the posts... and dragged me out on the lawn at the foot of the gallows... that's what happened... that's_ _ **all**_ _that happened... something about blue and white... nope, nothing... nothing else happened..._

"A poor recounting of nearly twelve hours, Mr. Hardy. Expand the details, if you please."

"No. I c-can't." _Joe? help me... please..._

"You will, although possibly you require some assistance with your recollection." Clipboard rummaged briefly in the closet at the base of the stairs, returning with a long handled mallet. "The lodge fortunately is equipped for the recreational needs of the guests sojourning here. I always considered croquet to be a rather bland game, but I am willing to reconsider."

"I c-can't." Shudders rippled through his bound frame, but Frank didn't notice. _I really can't... the post... then... breathe... then... God... I can't remember..._ The first blow from the oversize hammer landed just left of his waist, but he didn't hear the thud on his flesh, the ensuing groan, or his mother's shrieked entreaties for the militia officer to stop as one strike became five. _I don't remember... breathe... I don't... I don't... I_ _ **won't.**_ _..._

"Stop it! Stop! Stop! You'll kill him - stop!"

Clipboard halted the onslaught, regarding the blonde woman once again on the floor with a degree of detached amusement. "Calm yourself, Laura, I am not striking him all that hard, and he has the experience to know the difference, does he not? Your son seems reluctant to entertain us with stories of his tropical vacation. I am merely substituting alternate festivities."

"Festivities?! You're calling beating my child festivities?!" Fear boiled over into an anger Laura frantically sought to curtail. Frank needed help, not for Clipboard to launch into both of them. "I'm s-sorry, Colonel. I didn't mean that, but... please... don't hurt him again. Please."

The officer raised the mallet again, then winked. "Alright, Laura. You do realize he will have to die before I leave, but if it pleases you to suggest something else for now, I will entertain your recommendations. What shall we do instead?"

Laura stood, nervously approaching Clipboard. "It's been hours since we ate. You said the cabin was stocked. Is there something I could fix for all of us?"

"You want to cook for me, my dear?" The colonel's laughter rang more genuinely this time. "I am supposed to accept that in the midst of observing me torture your son, it suddenly occurred to you that you missed dinner? That removing me from the loft to the kitchen has no bearing on this suggestion?"

"I'd like to cook something... really."

"I doubt that, however, I do require food and I have no cuisine related skills. Very well." Clipboard knelt and unlocked the manacle from Laura's ankle. "Proceed downstairs, Laura, and I trust you understand Frank's precarious position should your intentions be other than culinary."

"Of course." Laura glanced at Frank when Clipboard turned to place the croquet mallet on the shelf, mouthing words she couldn't be sure he'd see. "I love you."

The wafting remnants of eggs and potatoes an hour later compounded the nausea that Frank couldn't shake, bile somehow sloshing among half remembered snatches of his trial in Ranei. He could hear his mother moving in the kitchen below; the clanking of plates as she did dishes, the crackle of flames as Clipboard built a fire in the hearth. He carefully erected walls around his thoughts, focusing on the sounds below and fiercely choking any wandering of his mind to the night before his failed hanging. Something was lurking there, something black and insidious. He didn't know what, only that a single glance into that abyss would render him more helpless than anything the colonel might do.

 _Pull the covers over your head, Frankie... and never ever look under the bed..._

 _...nothing to be afraid of under there, Joey, so there's no reason to look under there..._

 _... if you haven't looked, you wouldn't know..._

 _...you shouldn't be afraid of the dark, Joey..._

 _...you're wrong, Frankie. Pull your toes in, it'll get you if they hang over like that..._

 _...there's nothing there, Joey..._

Frank suddenly jerked hard against the ropes binding him to the chair, the childhood memory hammering furiously in his chest. _I wasn't this scared back then... but Joe was right... God, Joe, forgive me, you were always right..._

Somehow the sounds below wove their way back to the forefront of Frank's awareness.

"A delightful meal, Laura. Shall we rejoin your son?"

"N-no, please... it's late. Maybe... Maybe I could go upstairs and move Frank to the bed?" Laura doubted the officer would agree, but the longer she could keep him away from Frank, the more chance that someone, anyone, would find them.

"Laura, we have already discussed this. Frank will be staying exactly where he is until I complete his execution. However, if you are so eager to sleep, then the idea must have some merit." Clipboard crossed to the log framed bed, turning down the flannel comforter to reveal cornflower blue sheets beneath. "You are welcome to join me."

Laura froze, unable to answer as the colonel shed his jacket and shirt. Finding the ability to move again she backed away from him until she collided with the kitchen counter, her hand flailing behind her almost subconsciously as she felt for the heavy frying pan she'd used earlier. "N-no, that's quite alright. I'll go upstairs and use the twin bed there."

"No, my dear, you made the suggestion and I have decided I rather like the idea. You will make a far more pleasant diversion for the evening than further conversation with Frank."

"I didn't mean... I... no... no... don't..."

Frank could see nothing of the events below, but the scene wasn't hard to envision. He heard Clipboard's heavy footsteps and Laura's scuffling ones; heard a chair near the table overturn, then the thud of a heavy object followed by cursing from the colonel and a sharp squeal from his mother.

"You bitch! I have been civilized. I have avoided punishing you for the traitorous behavior of your husband and sons. I could have tied you to a chair like that damn spy you raised. I could have forbidden you to leave Ranei in the first place, taken you as mine, but I didn't. I let you sit and share a meal instead and you **hit** me!? You...Hit... Me!" A sharp smack kept time with the last words.

"Leave her a-alone! Clipboard? Y-you want to k-kill me? W-well, I'm n-not d-d-down there!" Frank bellowed as loud as his restricted airway allowed.

"You hear that, Laura? Frank misses me." Harsh pants gradually spaced themselves out as the militia officer regained mastery of his temper. "Your son issued me an invitation. What is it going to be, **Mrs.** Hardy? Do I go upstairs and kill your son right now or are you issuing a counter-offer?"

"What?" Laura sounded slightly dazed.

"I am finished with games. In the next two minutes, I am either conducting an execution, or I am going to bed - and I have no intention of sleeping alone."

Frank desperately fought to hear something in the silence that followed, aggravated at an unrelated thought nudging at him. _Something about the bookcase... how could that possibly matter right now?... Don't do it, Mom... don't let him... not for me... not for me..._

"I... please don't ask me..." Her voice almost didn't carry to the top of the stairs.

"So Frank it is then."

"N-no, wait."

"Wait for what, Laura?"

"I'll... I'll..." Soft sobs filled the gaps between words. "I'll come to bed with you."

"Charming, my dear. I promise you will have a memorable night. Leave the dress there."

Frank squeezed his eyes shut tight, anguish and rage welling up from his toes, when suddenly a dozen images flashed behind the clamped lids.

 _Clipboard leaned on the bookcase... and it rocked a little..._

 _I was remembering Joe in our room and I jerked... the chair jerked!_

 _Mom's voice isn't coming from the bed downstairs... not yet..._

 _The mattress just creaked... the colonel is there..._

 _He's going to... to... Mom..._

 _Something jangled... a belt buckle... oh God..._

 _NO!_

All of that instantly gelled and Frank began to furiously fling his weight side to side within the cords holding him, livid that his feet were bound above the floor, useless, and petrified his mother would close the distance to the bed below before the chair surrendered to the inevitability of momentum.

And then it happened, the chair tipping side to side in wilder swings and finally toppling into the bookcase at the edge of the loft. Frank had time for the slightest of feral smiles before the shelves crashed over the precipice to splinter the bed frame below, the overbalanced chair and its bound occupant tumbling after to join the rubble!

"FRAAANKKK!"

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to be continued...


	25. Chapter 25

**.**

 **.**

 **CHAPTER 24  
**

Fenton jumped, startled by a soft thump against his shoulder. He blinked the water out of his eyes, requiring several seconds to process that unless Laura had done some radical redecorating, he wasn't at home. Mud squished under his feet and rump, the ground he was sitting on more of a quagmire than anything else, and rough bark dug into his back. Large drops of water plopped in unpredictable intervals onto his head, gravity liberating them from the fronds of the trees above, while the mournful calls of birds wove through the mist in a directionless muted symphony. The rain itself had dwindled to a steady sprinkle. He almost concluded the thump that woke him must have simply been a larger splat of water when he realized a slight weight was still there. Worse yet, it moved.

Stilling his breath if not his imagination, he debated between trying to transform himself into one of the motionless statues that dotted the jungle here or flinging himself as far away from whatever had taken up residence over his clavicle as he could. He wished he could see what was there, but no amount of shifting his eyes provided the merest glimpse. Reluctantly deciding to split the difference, he slapped his hand across his shoulder and rolled sideways at the same time, halting a few feet away to spin and face his foe.

The fearsome monster blinked back at him, all three inches of its red speckled salamander self frozen where it landed for a long second before it scuttled under a large leaf and disappeared from view. _Great, Hardy, now you're staging counter attacks on something you can buy at the pet store... probably be battling fuzzy little bunnies next..._

Deciding he was safe from miniscule amphibians for the present, the detective gazed up at the sky, locating the scarce patches visible between the tree canopy and a myriad of vines. The ebony present when he he'd opted to rest against the tree had dissolved into swaths of deep violet and periwinkle, with gray clouds that trailed all the way to the earth as wisps of fog. True daylight couldn't be more than half an hour away, although the fog promised limited ground visibility even then.

Fenton had stopped a few hours before when the swollen stream he was following rushed closer to the shore before ducking below a stubby block wall. He'd observed the area for quite some time, confident he'd located the militia base. The raging of the storm prevented any sort of patrols and he'd thought he could pause briefly before trying to find a way in. Clearly, he'd fallen asleep instead.

Another sound joined the watery morning music of the rainforest, a patterned whirring approaching from over the water. Helicopters - and more than one to Fenton's trained ear. The American hesitated, relatively certain these were his long awaited back up. Relatively being the key word. If these were militia aircraft, then waiting on them to land could be as detrimental to him as to Joe. Deciding not to risk it, he folded himself within the shadow of a craggy tree trunk and listened until the noise faded in the opposite direction before resuming his inspection of the stone blocks ahead.

Several hundred yards later, a break in the wall met his trailing fingers, the size of the opening appropriate for an iron gate that fortunately was lying on the sand beside it rather than bolted in place. Fenton crouched in the shadows, certain any men within would have heard the helicopters as well.

Several groups of fatigue clad soldiers briefly appeared and then melted back into the mist on their various assignments, their voices carrying through the rain. The majority of their words he couldn't understand, but snippets of English came through as well. Enough of the barked commands were discernable to convince Fenton that he needed to search the perimeter before chancing an entry into the compound. The militia personnel were heavily armed and splitting into groups to defend against incoming troops, with a smaller number of men assigned to securing the partially completed fortress from any significant storm damage and assessing the number of prisoners missing or dead. As far as Fenton was concerned there were three relevant points in all of that. One, Joe might not be in there if they were worried about escapees. Two, the soldiers were preparing to fight and his odds of getting shot before he could help his son just skyrocketed. And three, if Joe was still captive in those walls, everyone was far too busy to stage a public execution. From what little interaction he'd had with Clipboard, Rao, and company in the past, he was sure they would want anything they inflicted on Joe to be as public as possible.

Fenton slipped back into the tree line, the tall ferns protectively swallowing him as the first stutters of gunfire sounded. The semiautomatic pistol he'd, ah, borrowed from the soldier in Ranei rested heavy in his hand, but he had no delusions about its ability to protect him from a small army. There were a number of small trails leading into the vegetation, all used frequently enough to have a clear track, but none bearing footprints compliments of the violent storm that raged the afternoon and night before. Determined to remain unseen at least until a time of his own choosing, he picked a path at random, smiling at the first sign of twisted twigs and crushed leaves. Someone else had been this way, and not long ago. _Please let it be Joe... I know it's too much to ask, too big of a coincidence when I don't even believe those exist, but surely my sons are due a little good fortune from this God-forsaken place... please..._

 _#####_

 _#####_

"I heard something." Joe pushed himself up to one elbow, clamping down on a groan as his ribs protested the motion.

"Yeah, Joe, a lot of somethings - the rain, birds, the stream, a racket I think might be monkeys - but at least the lightning stopped."

"I meant I hear something else, Morton. Listen."

Chet shifted slightly closer to the opening of the dugout, straining to pick up anything else in the early morning light. The rat-a-tat of machine guns inspired a rapid retreat into their shelter. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to be wrong once in a while."

"I am wrong once in a while, just don't tell Frank. Unfortunately, this is not one of those extraordinarily rare occurrences. Stay down."

Long minutes passed, both boys limiting unnecessary activities... conversation... movement... breathing...

"Someone's coming." Chet fumbled through his scant belongs, picking up the gun he'd taken from his guard. "Can you run if we have to?"

"Shh. I know - and no, don't think so." Joe mouthed the words, tugging Chet toward him.

The footsteps had to be very close to be heard on the soft jungle floor, and if not for the snap of a twig, Chet and Joe would likely have never heard anything. Now, however, they held their breath, hoping some tiny sound would prove that whoever was in the forest had passed them by. Instead a rustle of leaves came closer.

"I can't get caught again, Joe... and I don't think you can survive it either." Chet's words were so quiet that Joe didn't think they were intended for him, but the figure in the darkness must have heard something. The cocking of a gun sounded unnaturally loud.

Chet raised his own firearm, pushed into action by a need to defend Joe and his own panic at the idea of returning to the camp. Sitting in Bayport, he would have told you nothing was worse than dying. Now, he knew better. Before he'd made any clear decision to shoot, the pistol in his hand cracked off a round, the noise almost deafening in close confines of the soggy dugout. He wasn't going back.

The second shot went wild, clipping the dirt roof of their enclosure. Joe snatched the gun, any consideration as to whether to confront their opponent or not now moot, and aimed at where the scurrying noise ahead and left of them in the fog had last sounded. He paused, hoping that Chet had either hit his target with the first round, scared the unseen man away, or both.

Another rustle broke the tableau and Joe squeezed the trigger, dragging himself forward in the hopes of spotting something. He didn't want to shoot anyone he couldn't see, and aimed slightly left of his presumed mark. Maybe another shot would convince the figure in the fog that two injured, hungry, mud covered boys just weren't worth the trouble.

The day was dismally gloomy, but not so much so that Joe's pale hair didn't present a stark contrast to the fertile tropical soil and rich green of the dripping plants, and he scooted an inch too far beyond the roots forming the rim of their shelter. The blonde waves may as well have been a beacon.

"JOE?!"

The younger Hardy had his firearm aimed again when the yell soaked into his brain. He pulled his hand sharply upward. "Dad?"

Fenton scrambled into the natural hollow beneath the tree roots, shoving Joe in ahead of him. "Which one of you nearly killed me? That first shot missed my head by an inch!" No matter what the words were, he wrapped his arms around his son, pulling him close. "Are you ok, Joey? I didn't think I was going to get here fast enough... Connor said Clipboard planned to kill you... I thought I was too late... I... ...Are you hurt?"

"I'm ok, Dad. It's ok." Joe stayed still as his father pulled back, his shaking hands quickly skimming over his son to assess injuries. It was a routine that was far too familiar to the youngest member of their family and any attempt to thwart it was pointless. "And Chet's the one playing Wyatt Earp."

"Hey!" Chet heard the faint mischief in Joe's voice, but still wasn't certain how Mr. Hardy would take this bit of news. Frank and Joe both tended to forget that their father could be more than a little intimidating.

Fenton hissed sharply when he found the wound in Joe's thigh, wondering just what the last few days entailed for his son that allowed even a minor bullet wound to fall into the general category of 'ok.' "Joe? You're shot?"

Joe knew the question in his dad's voice was a request for more information, not any doubt about the source of the hole in his leg. "Yeah - Rao." Somehow he couldn't bring himself to say more than that.

His dad stared at the deep blue eyes, searching out the details there and deciding that while there was clearly much more to this story, it could wait until they were in a more secure position. He swept over the bruises layered on his child's torso and face, accepting Joe's silent plea not to demand a recounting. The urge to envelop his son in his arms and promise him none of this horror was real pounded inside his head, but Joe wasn't the nightmare prone toddler he'd rocked to sleep anymore. This time they were all already awake and Fenton couldn't banish the evil dragon from the kingdom alternately known as Joe's disaster of a bedroom. Reluctantly he released Joe's hands and took his first real look at the other occupant of the overly cramped shelter.

Chet Morton barely resembled the teenager he'd brought on a surfing trip at the start of spring break. New muscles stretched across a bruised back, but hollows dipped between his ribs and below his cheekbones. A tattered pair of blue shorts left very little to the imagination and the dirt ground into his skin and snagged nails couldn't possibly be explained by a single night out in the rain. The unkempt beard was a shock, both in its presence and the reddish glints so much brighter than the sun bleached sandy hair streaming around the base of his neck. He could only assume Joe's initial reaction had been much the same.

Nothing Fenton could say would have been appropriate to what he felt at finding both his son and his friend in this state, the evidence of the harm done to them so clearly written on their faces and hides. The black and purple blotches wouldn't be what came back to Fenton in the weeks to come, though; he knew that. It was the look in their eyes. He'd seen the same look before and it always was the one part of a case that woke him up in the middle of the night. He thought he'd made his peace with it, and maybe he had - until he'd seen it reflected in deep brown eyes so much like his own. Now it wasn't just Frank. Now hints of that same... something... looked back at him from Joe and Chet. How he didn't see the snare so neatly placed by Connor to get him to Ranei in the first place he would likely never know, but he suspected he'd be spending a lot of sleepless nights grappling with regret.

"You're a long way from home, Chet. Let's see if we can't do something about that." Fenton draped an arm around the shorter teen, ignoring Chet's surprised expression at the quick hug.

"Yes sir, I'd like that."

A pause stretched a minute, conveying much more than the words spoken. "I bet you would. It's going to be fine, but we are going to have to be cautious getting out of here. Those choppers should be for us, but I'd rather not get caught in any crossfire."

"I think we'd all agree on that, Dad."

"Yes, I suspect so." Joe smiled as his father tousled his hair, the gesture from his childhood more reassuring than annoying at the moment. "Chet has the best idea of the terrain; Clipboard is setting up a new headquarters here like we thought and all the prisoners have been working construction all over the island."

"Ok." Fenton started drawing in the dirt, adding details of the militia buildings as Chet supplied information. Half an hour later he was satisfied that they knew as much as they were going to and it was time to leave the burrow. "Time to find a way home, boys; let's go. Oh, and Chet?"

"Yes?"

"Remind me as soon as we get back to Bayport to ban you from any firing range trips with Frank and Joe - I can't survive your aim getting any better. Heck of a shot in the dark aiming for a noise, but I'd be just as happy if you missed by a little more next time, ok?"

Chet flushed, grateful the poor light of the rainy morning hid most of the redness in his cheeks. "Ah, yes sir, I'll bear that in mind."

"There!" Joe pointed between two palms, spotting the pair of aircraft in a clearing on the next ridge. The trio had spent the morning dodging a dozen armed skirmishes, angling for the two areas Chet thought you could land a helicopter that were outside the camp courtyard itself. The first one had been a bust, but it looked like this time they were in luck. The only trouble was that reaching the glade required a hike down the mountain and back up the other side, and Joe was already stumbling more than he walked. With a promise to his dad that he was fine that neither of them believed, they started down the steep bank.

The sodden earth was a blessing, permitting the three of them to press small ledges into the soil for balance, and cushioning their landings when that failed to work. Everything seemed to be going as well as it could until half an hour after they started up the opposite slope.

Fenton tripped over a root, realizing a second to late that the straight, regular wood couldn't be natural. About the same time as that thought registered, strong hands yanked him up, a knee from his assailant sharply plowing into his stomach.

Chet stopped dead fifteen yards back, not brave enough in his new found status as marksman to consider shooting at the soldier as long as Mr. Hardy was held tight to his chest. He looked frantically for Joe, aware the younger Hardy had been falling behind, but there wasn't any sign of him. He didn't think the soldier had seen him and squelching a flare of guilt he stepped backward. He wasn't abandoning Fenton, but he was going to need some help.

Help was nowhere to be found. Desperate not to make noise, he retraced his steps more slowly than he liked, but he couldn't find Joe and he wasn't about to call out to him. He finally heard the snap of a branch, but a glance that direction revealed only a small form hunched in the brush. Definitely too petite to be the younger Hardy. Afraid he was in the middle of rebel troops, he eased back up the hill, trying to at least relocate Fenton.

The petite form spotted Fenton first, quickly aligning the scope on her weapon and waiting for a clear shot. Before she could fire, a loud whoop bellowed from behind the militia soldier and his struggling captive.

Joe Hardy had circled around the camouflage clad man fighting with his father, well aware he had one chance to free him. He wasn't strong enough for more than that. He sprang from the trees making enough noise to wake several generations of the dead, simultaneously landing on the man's back and grabbing the barrel of his gun.

The ensuing scuffle was brief, Fenton taking advantage of the distraction to drive his elbows back into the rebel's gut and Joe darting backwards just far enough to launch a kick as the man spun, deftly catching him under the chin. The soldier's head audibly snapped back as he dropped into a heap, unconscious.

Joe fell beside him, hands clamped around the once again bleeding bullet wound. "Dad? You alright?"

Fenton hovered over his child, mouth opening and closing multiple times before he figured out how to respond to that. "Am I?... I... you... and... ... yes, I'm fine, Joe... you could have gotten yourself killed..."

"I didn't."

"Yeah... I see that." Fenton pressed his hands hard over the red trailing down Joe's leg, the tension easing in his shoulders when the flow finally slowed. "Joe?"

"Yeah?" There was tight pain lancing through the question.

"Thank you."

The slim figure in the tree cover sifted her aim, the cross hairs now squarely in the middle of the mud caked blonde waves. She waited, listening to the other youth crashing through the vegetation, confident she could pick off all three as soon as they were together. It was a shame blondie had to go first, he was almost as cute filthy as he had been clean in the cafe. Oh well, that last cup of off coffee would have to last in her memory.

Suddenly a dozen men raced from the forest, guns drawn, swarming over the Americans on the ground. She dropped her gun to her side with a sigh and blended back into the vines. There'd be another time.

"Fenton Hardy? Is that you?"

Fenton snapped his head up at the familiar voice. "Arthur Gray? You wouldn't ask if you weren't already certain who was here."

"True. Interesting choice for a family outing, Hardy. I heard you could use a lift home." The Network agent held out his hand, assisting the detective to his feet while the other members of his team began to check over Joe and Chet with a clearly medical perspective.

Joe answered for his father. "Yeah, we'd have left already, but I couldn't come up with cab fare. Nice of you to show up."

Gray ignored him, again addressing Fenton. "The encampment is almost under control, but there's still a few resistance pockets to clear out. You interested or are you leaving with the kiddies?"

Fenton couldn't deny part of him craved the opportunity to grab the biggest firearm any of the American agents possessed and make the maximum number of holes in Rao, Shuman, and their cronies, extracting revenge for the pain these men had caused his family. A single glance at his son, however, and that disappeared, soaking into mud at his feet. Elias Dahl and his assistant, Ellen, were loading Joe and Chet into the chopper, signaling the pilot to wait until Fenton made his decision.

"No, this isn't my fight, Arthur. Besides, I got what I came for."

#####

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to be continued...


	26. Chapter 26

A/N - working all night, so probably couldn't create a coherent note, so I'll stick with thank you for the reviews, I so appreciate hearing from everyone!

Chapter 25

"Mr. Hardy? Good afternoon?"

Fenton snapped his eyes open at the sound of his name, scooting up in the unyielding orange plastic chair. It was a testament to the five nearly sleepless days he'd just spent that he could sleep in the fool thing. _Wonder if there'd be any market for these if emergency room waiting rooms didn't exist? I doubt it..._

He realized with only slight surprise that he knew the man standing before him. Perhaps he was the only physician in the building fluent in English. At least the Indonesian medic appeared unalarmed. "Dr. Sianturi, hello. You've seen Joe and Chet... um, my son and his friend?"

A wry smile crossed the man's face. "No need for reminder, I recall Joseph quite well... and yes, I have. Perhaps you would prefer to talk in the conference room?"

Fenton tensed, an echo of the absolute fear he'd experienced there stinging through him. He'd sat in that same room almost three months ago with Laura, listening to this same physician...

#

 _The doctor inclined his head fractionally. "Dire as in dying."_

 _He'd said it. Fenton and Laura had known for hours that this was going to be a discussion about Frank dying, but as long as the doctor had danced around the term they could pretend to ignore that. Now the word hung out there, obscene, suspended for a moment before slamming home like a dagger._

 _Laura never made a sound, but Dr. Sianturi was well aware of the impact he'd had. As much as he wanted to be hopeful for this family, it wasn't fair to them to sugar coat anything. It would only make it that much harder when the boy died. He mentally corrected himself, there was still a small possibility that Frank Hardy's death remained in the realm of if. It just wasn't a very good one. He handed her a box of tissues from the table in the corner without mentioning the glistening in her eyes._

" _Ready?" He waited until both parents looked at him again. "The arm itself is potentially fixable with surgery, but that isn't what concerns me now. I told you there were facts to deal with and then speculation and I think we're heading into the uncertainties. Frank's blood pressure is dangerously low and as I said, he's intubated in order to breathe. He also has a fever and we're suctioning blood out of his lungs. Taken collectively, those symptoms suggest two diagnoses to me."_

 _Fenton's frown deepened as the doctor placed a hand on Laura's elbow, not out of any misplaced sense of jealousy, but due to the implication. If this relative stranger felt the need to offer comfort, then there was little hope._

" _Either the arm fracture led to a blood clot that moved to his lungs, an embolism, and that's the source of his respiratory failure; or the pneumonia or infection from the arm has progressed into the sepsis we were talking about. Sepsis can produce clotting and bleeding problems on its own, but it's one of the later complications usually."_

" _But you said that low blood pressure was the hallmark of sepsis." Fenton forced his mind to stay with the medic's dissertation rather than the condition of his son._

" _It is, but it could go with the clot, too. Right now, I'm treating him for both until we're sure. The pulmonary embolism is probably the better scenario at present." He didn't include that any time you could conclude that a pulmonary embolism was the lesser of two evils, you were so far up the creek there was no point in even looking for a paddle._

" _How do find out which it is?" Laura's voiced seemed thin, less substantial than an hour ago._

" _I've sent lab tests that will help with that, but the better way would be a CT scan to see if there are clots in his lung or not. Unfortunately, he's too unstable to go downstairs for the test."_

 _Fenton ground his teeth together, wishing the barrier would keep his question at bay, both needing and dreading an answer. Eventually the attempt at delay failed. "You expect our son to die, don't you?"_

 _Sianturi huffed out a breath, vaguely ruffling his own hair. "Yes." They deserved an honest assessment. "His injuries are extensive, even if he'd had prompt treatment and avoided complications. As it is, the survival rate is very low."_

" _No. You don't know Frank. He'll make it through this." Laura's crying was more evident now, but remained soundless._

 _A weak smile crossed the doctor's face. If anything could help his patient, a determined family would be a must. "Perhaps. Two other physicians have seen your son since he arrived and I have to tell you they both recommended keeping him comfortable and letting him go. I can only give you a realistic opinion of the situation, but what I can give Frank is twenty-four hours. I don't like his chances, but he's young and he deserves twenty four hours of full treatment to prove us wrong."_

" _And this time tomorrow?" Fenton squared his shoulders to the extent sitting in a wheelchair allowed, direct gaze boring into the man before him._

" _If Frank survives until this time tomorrow, we'll speak again. If he's made any improvement, we continue to treat. If not, we should consider withdrawing the ventilator." His hand left Laura's arm after a faint squeeze. "I'm sorry the news isn't better."_

 _#_

Fenton shook his head almost violently to clear the scene away. Frank had survived and was back home, hopefully getting better. His thoughts needed to be with Joe right now.

Dr. Sianturi grimaced at the expressions flitting across the American detective's face, recognizing the memories he'd inadvertently conjured. "Forgive me. Your son will be fine; I simply suggested the move as you seem to be in desperate need of a more comfortable chair. One of the nurses can see to all of those scratches as soon as we're done."

"I'm fine." The words tumbled out automatically before Fenton considered how he must look with several days of jungle rain, mud, insect bites, and the slashes of a hundred little branches adorning every visible inch of him. Not to mention the purple and black bruise across the better portion of his jaw. None of that mattered to him in the least. He needed to know about Joe. "...But I guess a little sprucing up couldn't hurt. I'll check in at the desk after I see the boys."

An elegant arched eyebrow rose. "Before you see the boys. I've spent the last four hours cleaning them up; I won't have it undone."

The joke was a poor one, but it served to put Fenton at ease. At the moment he was feeling far less like a world renowned investigator and for more like an exhausted, worried parent. "Deal."

They'd reached the conference room and Sianturi idly gestured at one of the padded arm chairs. "You know, I really didn't expect to see you or your children again. I would have rather thought the last trip to Ranei would have satisfied your family's curiosity about the place rather than inspired another visit."

"Guess we're the proverbial bad penny, but curiosity didn't bring Joe and I back. We had to find Chet."

"The other boy." It wasn't quite a question. "He isn't your child, is he?"

The question caught Fenton off guard until he recalled that there were likely treatment consent forms that would be an issue. "No."

"I didn't think so - he doesn't resemble you like the other two."

Fenton smiled, very few people commented on his resemblance to his younger son. "Most folks say Joe doesn't either."

It was the physician's turn to look surprised. "Really? I would have thought it obvious. His facial structure is very similar to yours and his build is far more like yours than your elder child. It's the eyes and hair that throw them I suppose. Anyway, not the point at present. Joe's in surgical recovery..."

"Surgery?" Fenton sputtered. A young doctor he didn't recognize had appeared as soon as the Network helicopter landed on the roof of the hospital in Jakarta, shoving forms under his nose and issuing rapid fire instructions to the nurses accompanying him. His command of English was tenuous, and while surgery had been mentioned as a possibility, Fenton had assumed someone would notify him if that became necessary. He wouldn't have been so quick to fall asleep if he'd known Joe was in the operating room.

"I am sorry, Mr. Hardy, I thought you had been informed." The doctor shifted uncomfortably until Fenton made a dismissive gesture, both aware that the communications error couldn't be undone now. "The procedures were relatively minor. There was some mild muscle damage to his thigh from a gunshot wound that was inflicted at very close range, and he had a number of small wounds that needed cleaning. Those could have been done outside of surgery, actually, if the leg hadn't been an issue. He does have three cracked ribs, but they are non-displaced and the best cure for those is time. I sutured three small lacerations on his back and two inside his mouth. It appears his teeth cut the inner lip when someone hit or kicked him. Fortunately whatever he was drugged with has cleared his system without ill effect.

Fenton nodded, the list hammering at him. His child should have never been in this situation. "He'll be alright?"

"Yes. He's covered in bruises, but there isn't anything that won't heal. I checked the wound in his foot from last time, too. That's done very well, especially considering that he seems to have been in the rainforest barefoot again. He does have some other marks..." Dr. Sianturi steepled his fingers and tapped them vaguely against his upper lip. "Did Joe have the opportunity to tell you what happened to him?"

"Not really. You know the basics?"

"Just that he was kidnapped from Ranei by the exiled militia faction and held for a few days before you found him."

"I don't really know much more than that myself. When I located him, our focus was obviously on getting away. Joe..." Fenton nervously hesitated, aware both he and his son had intentionally dodged what was likely to be an emotionally charged conversation. "...Joe didn't seem ready to talk about it... You said marks?"

"Make sure he gets around to that discussion." The physician's stare was on the verge of piercing. He shrugged it off after a few seconds. Whatever life the American and his sons had chosen, it wasn't his affair. "As to the marks, I'm fairly certain they're dozens of leech bites."

"Leeches?!" The idea was revolting.

"Yes. They're very common in this climate, but I don't generally see this many spots on one person. It certainly suggests he wasn't in a position to pick them off."

"He isn't going to get some awful infection from that? What needs done about it? Is there some medication that..."

"Mr. Hardy, stop." Sianturi was aware of the disgust factor that the wriggling creatures inspired. "Leeches have very few infectious organisms unique to them that are dangerous to humans... although theoretically any blood borne infection present in a prior human host of the parasite, such as hepatitis, malaria, or HIV, would be transmissible, there are not any documented cases of which I'm aware. The main concern for Joe is that the bites tend to intensely itchy as they resolve and this may lead to secondary skin infections if he scratches them excessively."

Fenton had gone slightly clammy at the mention of hepatitis and... and other things and had to remind himself of this particular doctor's tendency to slip into medical resident lecture mode. It had certainly given the detective enough jolts of extra anxiety when his sons were hospitalized last time. He refocused, allowing an image of a six year old Joe with chickenpox to float through his mind, the upturned cherub face engaged in a deep pout as Laura forced him to wear mittens to bed. The child was digging craters in himself, but insisted the resulting sores were an improvement. The indignant treble voice was still quite clear in the memory. _Ouching isn't fun, but you can sort of ignore it... itchiness is just plain evil!..._ "Can you give him something for the itch?"

"I've already ordered it, but be aware that atarax may make him quite drowsy." Sianturi sighed, turning his mind to the other child. Both young men were bigger than he was, but with what they'd obviously been through, he still had a protective urge to think of them as children. Twenty five years into medical practice and he was supposed to be more detached than that. Somehow he wasn't, and he suspected the majority of his colleagues weren't either. It just wasn't discussed. For him the answer to sanity seemed to lie in those ill timed retreats into medical statistics and theories. He still had to remind himself that the comfortable distance they provided for him didn't do much for the patients and families.

"We went ahead with treatment for Chet as parental consent was unavailable and the hospital administrator felt that given the circumstances and that he is seventeen, it was appropriate to permit him to make his own medical decisions. Like Joe, he will need time to recover, but he should be fine. For the most part, his injuries are less severe, but inflicted over a longer period of time. He does have a clavicle fracture and a fracture of one of the bones in his right foot. Both are between five and six weeks in age and will need to be re-broken and aligned properly. Chet has expressed a preference for waiting until he is home to do that and I agree. The main concern I have in his case is his rather profound malnutrition. Again, time will correct the situation, but he must regain weight on a regimented plan. Eating anything that appeals to him right now will only make him ill. I can provide the nutritionist's guidelines to you if that is suitable?"

"Of course." Fenton frowned slightly. "Is there a telephone I might use for an international call? Now that I have some information, I want to contact Chet's parents.

"Chet specifically requested that you didn't."

"What? Why?"

"He prefers to do it himself, I would imagine."

Fenton smiled. "Yes, I'm sure he would. I didn't think he'd be able to call from his room."

"He can't, but there isn't any reason you can't bring him down to my office in an hour or two. **After** you see the nurse about taking care of yourself. "

"Fine, I'll do that next." A faint note of exasperation crept into his voice. The ratty state of his clothes hadn't exactly made the day's priority list. "Then I can see Joe?"

"Certainly." The doctor heard the exasperation, but there was something else there as well. A sadness or regret that didn't mesh with the rest of the conversation. "Mr. Hardy... Forgive me, but you still seem worried and the boys will be fine. Perhaps... I... I don't mean to pry, but where is Frank?"

Fenton slumped slightly, not fully aware of the movement. Joe hadn't been able to say much before he fell into an exhausted stupor during the flight here, but he had been frantic to tell him something about his brother. Unconsciousness claimed him before he could explain everything to his father, but the words he was able to grunt out had chilled Fenton's soul. _"Clipboard... about Frank... he knows... My fault, dad... but he knows... I'm so sorry..."_

 _#####_

 _#####_

Laura blinked, unsure exactly what had happened. She was laying on a hardwood floor, her ripped dress was half off her shoulders, and she was cold. She also seemed to have a heck of a headache. So far, that was a little sparse on details.

She rolled onto her back and sat up, surprised when a piece of wood clattered to the floor with the motion. The sound dispelled the hazy confusion, the last minute and a half replaying instantly in her head as she scrambled to her feet. Clipboard had been chasing her about the room, livid after she hit him with an iron pan, and Frank had been yelling from the loft above. All of that had stopped, however, as soon as she'd agreed to spend the night in the colonel's bed. She still couldn't quite believe she'd said it, but she'd do it again if that's what it took to keep the monster away from her child.

That's not what had happened, though. As soon as the militia leader sat on the edge of the mattress, the long bookcase that served as the railing for the loft above had crashed to the floor, smashing the bed frame beneath it. A stray bit of rail cracked into Laura's head, knocking her to the floor even as she screamed her son's name. If the shelves went over the edge, then Frank must have, too...

A horrified stare at the jumble of splintered wood, books, and blue blankets confirmed that. The broken chair served as pinnacle of the mound, Frank's back turned toward her. She rushed to him, ignoring the shards pressing into her feet and a softer squish that had to be some part of Clipboard sticking out from beneath the massive shelf. If he was dead, checking to see what body part she just mashed was a waste of time. If he wasn't... well... she couldn't work up all that much concern.

Easing to her knees, she leaned down to peer at Frank's face, frightened by his lack of movement. The ladder back rails of the chair that his arms and neck had been tied to were now separated from the seat bottom where his knees remained bound, twisting his body half about at the waist. Her fear about what that meant for his spine evaporated when she got her first glimpse of his face.

The deeply shadowed eyes were closed, the bruised jaw slack and slightly open. A new gash started above the curve of his ear, extending into the disheveled brown hair fanned over the pile of tomes beneath, out of her sight. None of that especially attracted her attention or elicited the sharp gasp she couldn't help. No, the shade of his usually tanned skin claimed responsibility for that. He'd been paler than normal this spring, but right now, no word on the spectrum from alabaster to almond could remotely describe the coloration of her firstborn's face. It was blue.

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to be continued...


	27. Chapter 27

**CHAPTER 26**

"Oh God... no, no... no, no, no, no... Frank... no, not now, no... wake up, baby, please... please..."

Laura pressed her fingers into her son's neck, splaying her opposite palm across his back while her forehead dropped to rest against his. The pleas kept tumbling from her lips, unheard even by the one speaking them... soft... prayerful... begging...

"Frank? Please, baby... please..." A weak, skittering tempo beat under her fingers, gaining speed as if racing to an inevitable, horrid resolution, but no air stirred against her face, nor did the ribs beneath her hand move. Laura processed the information on some subliminal level, instantly shifting both hands to claw at the taut rope encircling his neck. She couldn't even slip a fingertip between the makeshift noose and his skin.

"No... no... you wait for me, Frank... you... you... wait!... you have to... please... wait..." Laura's rambling monologue was a completely inadequate outlet for the panic welling in her chest as she darted to the kitchen, jerking open drawers to grab the knife she'd chopped vegetables with a mere hour ago. She stumbled over the scattered debris, kicking out in fright when questing fingernails raked across her ankle. A glance at the grasping hand confirmed the arm that owned it was hopelessly pinned in the pile, the remainder of the colonel hidden from sight. She hurriedly stepped around it, thumping back to her knees at Frank's side.

The knife slipped from her fingers the first time she tried to work the tip below the strands of cotton rope. She wiped anxiety slicked palms against the floral fabric of her skirt and wrapped her hand around the matte steel handle again. "It's ok, Frank, I'm right here, honey... Mom's right here... I'm going to get this loose... you're going to be ok... please... "

The sleek edge of the upturned blade slid sideways twice, the tip pricking into Frank's skin each time, tiny red rivulets matching the water trailing unnoticed down his mother's cheek. She heard the raw glottic gasps ripping through him now, spaced too widely for her to have noticed before. Enough bloodied strands frayed to allow the knife to slip under at last, a final upward yank freeing the bruised throat beneath. The slash across the pad of Laura's thumb went unheeded.

"Frank? Please, baby... just breathe..." Laura fought a mindless urge to surrender to fear, struggling to retrieve details from every first aide seminar she'd ever managed to attend. "Not supposed to move you... I know that... but... I'm rambling... God... " She held her own breath, listening for his, but only garbled, feeble choking noises followed. "School volunteer class didn't exactly cover the sort of things you and your brother get into... can't panic... please... breathe..." Her attempts to roll him onto his back and keep his spine aligned at the same time met with limited success, but she was able to tug him over, pinching his nose and pushing his jaw forward. The breaths she puffed into his lungs eventually led to a long, tortured wheeze, his respiratory efforts filled with obvious pain and yet still beautiful to hear. "That's it... breathe... Frank, you're scaring me, honey... please... "

The rasps grew louder and more regular if not less agonized; the blue-grey of his face fading first to a clammy, stark white and then very slowly suffusing with the faintest hint of pink. Tiny coughs interspersed themselves between his breaths an eternity of seconds later, followed finally by a fluttering of obsidian lashes.

A barely audible screech passed the purpled lips, full of hurt and disoriented confusion. "M-Mom?"

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Fenton stretched and paced around the bed again, half wondering if stirring the air in the room might stir his son's eyelids. Joe had been awake but not lucid when he was transferred from surgical recovery to his room, but Fenton missed it while he got a few bandages of his own. From his view, the handful of band aids verged on overkill for his minor injuries and he was annoyed he'd lost the opportunity to speak with Joe. A knock on the door interrupted his muttered character assassinations of an assortment of bandage wielding, overly chipper junior staffers with a far greater than healthy fascination with neosporin.

"Mr. Fenton Hardy?" An older nurse stepped into the room, smiling at the tall brunette man who nodded in response.

"Dr. Sianturi will be here in about an hour to update you. In the meanwhile, Mr. Morton is awake if you would like to accompany him to the lounge area to use the phone. He isn't permitted off this floor alone until tomorrow."

Fenton nodded again, then hesitated looking at the rumpled white hospital bed. Present in this room for less than three hours, Joe had already restlessly converted the sheets and blankets into a configuration rivaling a Celtic knot.

"Your son's likely to be asleep for some time, Mr. Hardy."

Sighing as he knew she was right, Fenton crossed the hall to find Chet. Ten minutes later he had the battered teenager arranged in the mandated wheelchair and in the elevator, headed for the phone.

He cleared his throat a little awkwardly, a dozen years of reasonably easy conversation with his sons' friend suddenly much more difficult. The young man was undeniably changed. "Chet? I'm not going to pretend I understand what being on that island has been like, but if there's anything you need to talk about, or that I can do... I'm sorry it took so long to find you, I hope you know that. Thank God we finally did. Joe said you'd already gotten yourself free, actually, and him too. Thank you."

The now clean shaven youth smiled, a rusty expression that had the appearance of being infrequently used. It was sincere, though, simply more world weary than before. "There's nothing you need to do for me that you haven't done already, Mr. Hardy. You found me, you got me off that island, which wasn't happening without your help regardless of what Joe said, and you're sending me home. That's all that matters. I'll be ok."

Fenton parked the chair in front of a bank of phones and circled to the front, squatting to eye level. Several seconds of intense inspection followed. "Yes, I believe you will. Before I got there, did Joe say anything about Frank?"

"No, nothing. Why?"

"There's a possibility that there's a problem back home. Nothing you need to be upset about right now."

Chet studied his knees, then raised his eyes firmly to the brown ones two feet away. "I'm not all that fragile, Mr. Hardy. Not anymore."

"No, I guess you're not." Fenton stood, a hand half extended toward the teenager's arm before awkwardly letting it drop. "I didn't mean it that way, Chet. No one has any doubts about what you're able to handle; I only needed to know if Joe said anything to you. If not, then you deserve to talk to your parents without anything else on your mind."

"He didn't say a word about Frank. We were more focused on hiding, being quiet, and the not so minor detail of plugging up the hole in Joe's thigh. After you caught up to us, well, you know what happened then. He was having a hard enough time just walking; I'd have helped him if he would have let me. There wasn't any chit chat."

"I seem to recall that neither of you would accept any help up that hill." The older man managed a wan smile, softening his words. "Call your folks, Chet. They've waited a long time."

The toughened facade faltered, a mix of eagerness and anxiety crossing the sunburned face. "Me too."

Chet never noticed the quick squeeze on his shoulder as Fenton slipped from the room.

"Dad? Hi... It's me, Chet..."

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Fenton rushed back upstairs, rounding the corner to Joe's room at jog that clearly annoyed the staff. Ever since Joe apologized on the helicopter, Fenton had been wrestling with a growing fear for his older son. He needed to speak to Joe as soon as he was alert and establish exactly what happened, especially since Chet had no information on the matter. He turned the knob to the room wondering how long he'd have to wait, but his son's voice wafted out into the hall ending any speculation.

"Calm down, you'll have to stay in bed..." The nurse's voice.

"I am calm, but I have to see my father immediately. That implies getting out of bed."

"No, actually it doesn't." Fenton stepped into the room, placing himself between a frustrated appearing nurse and his very determined son. He smiled at the her, subtly encouraging her to leave. The odds of her staring Joe down when he was wearing that particular expression were nonexistent. Fenton would guarantee that, goodness knows he'd had enough occasions to try.

"Dad? I need... I need to talk to you." Joe settled back into the pillows, but he dropped his chin, eyes only fleetingly darting up to collide with his father's. The stubbornness evaporated, replaced by a fascination with chewing on his thumbnail.

Fenton forced himself to be patient. Finally Joe's hands dropped to the sheets, fingers wadding in the edge. He was ready as he was going to get. "About Frank?"

"Yeah. Dad, I slipped up. I.. got... confused, I guess... Clipboard drugged me... I was rambling half out of my head... I'm not even sure what was out loud and what I imagined..." Nervousness poured off the teenager. "but somewhere in there... I told him. It told him Frank wasn't dead, that you hid him. I tried to cover after that, but it was too late. It was too late! I'm sorry..."

Fenton closed his eyes at the word drugged, knowing far more had transpired. "This isn't your fault, Joe. They drugged you, you were hurt... none of this is your fault."

"I wasn't drugged and hurt when I told Callie, Dad... just... stupid." His voice broke on the final pair of words.

"You've never been stupid, son." Fenton let that sink in. "They knew about Callie?"

"Yeah, they knew I told her." Joe pulled in a deep, stuttered breath, shoring himself up for his next questions. "I didn't tell them that, though. I'm almost certain of that. Do you... do you think she's ok? That Frank is?"

Fenton sank to the edge of the mattress, gently pressing Joe's forearm back to the blanket. He doubted his son realized he was picking at his nails again. "I don't know."

"You. Don't. Know." Joe repeated the phrase back as if it were some new incomprehensible dialect of Swahili. "That isn't what I expected you to say."

"Whatever you may have said, we have to assume your memory is correct and you didn't tell them about your conversation with Callie. That means you aren't the militia's only source of information about your brother. Which makes me a lot more worried than I was before."

"Because I couldn't have given them a location, but someone else might have?" Joe followed his father's train of thought easily enough, even though he didn't want to.

"Exactly. Neither you, nor Callie for that matter, could potentially betray Frank's location to Clipboard, because you don't know where he is. If someone else is giving them information, then we have more of a problem." Fenton paused, sizing up the possibilities. "Joe, I didn't ask what's happened since the soldiers dragged you out of the building on the wharf, but if there's anything that might give us a hint as to who knows what...

Joe blanched, heels skidding on the bedding as he unconsciously shoved backwards in the bed. "Dad - there's not. I lost a scuffle, I got drugged, thrown on a boat, beat up, shoved in a box, let back out again, and shot. Chet found me on a beach and you found the both of us. That's it. The only one babbling on about Frank was me. I'm sorry. I screwed up."

Fenton squeezed his son's hand as he stood. "That's not it, and you did not screw up, Joseph." The elder detective made an effort to eliminate the anger from his voice at what had been done to his child, sensing the bare bones explanation he'd just been given barely scratched the surface. When he spoke again the tone was far softer. "Joe, nobody's ever going to be as hard on you as you're being on yourself. It's ok that you don't want to talk about this yet, that's why I didn't ask before, but right now I have to know anything that might help track your brother."

Joe nodded, embarrassed that his dad had identified his reluctance to provide details for what it was. He was profoundly ashamed of himself for betraying his brother, and now that he didn't have getting out of the jungle alive to concentrate on, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide that. In control of his faculties or not, he remembered the panic of the rattan cage sinking into the mud and later the waves crashing over him. He couldn't shake the sense that the fear was somehow shameful as well.

"Dad, really... there's nothing relevant beyond what I've already said." Joe sat up suddenly, jarring cracked ribs and his gauze wrapped hand and leg. "Wait? Track Frank? You don't know where he's supposed to be either!?"

Fenton purposefully met the sapphire blue eyes, determined to maintain a connection. "No. I ran the same risk of being caught as you did, and the same risk of accidentally divulging that information. I have no idea where he is."

Joe's shocked reply was swallowed by a cadence of stomping in the tiled hallway, followed by a quartet of black and khaki clad men bursting in. Fenton reached for a gun at his shoulder that wasn't there before he recognized the center member of the group.

"Elias Dahl. Hello again." Fenton dropped his hand, but didn't relax his posture. This man had been in the same camp as Joe and Chet, yet looked far better. Something didn't add up.

"Fenton... and I assume this is your younger son, Joe? He's grown." Elias wore his condescending smirk even after losing two plus months and fifteen pounds as a guest of the rebel faction, although he'd clearly been much better treated than Chet. "I didn't have time to introduce myself in the forest glade."

"How'd you get there, anyway?" The American detective was partially genuinely curious and partially wary of the Network agent. He'd worked with him before, and that was more than enough to inspire caution.

"I have you to thank for that, I suppose. You called for backup to rescue Joe and they bailed me out on the side. Once you supplied the location, that allowed the other agents involved to coordinate with the elected Ranei government and raid the whole compound. We'd have found you sooner if you hadn't played scout leader and taken the boys for a nature hike."

"We were out searching for your guys since they were a tad late." Fenton took a step closer, both of them somehow bringing out the worst in the other.

"I wasn't aware you had any input into government scheduling, Fenton. That option was open once, and you wanted to play house with Laura."

"I'd make the same choice again, Dahl. Although maybe you could have used some assistance choosing subordinates. My wife was right about Nicholas Shuman."

"Everyone gets lucky once in a while." Elias glance over at a clearly fatigued but agitated Joe. "I believe we're annoying your son, Hardy, or he missed nap time. I've got to go see the doc myself, but I came here first to give you an update."

Fenton snorted. "And yet you've done everything but."

"Fine. The compound is destroyed. Minister Mejki was among the casualties, but a number of major players are unaccounted for, including Nicholas and Rao. Colonel Manado left the island a few days ago. I take it you found the ship log in my safe and figured it out."

"Yes, thank you. Joe figured it out, actually." While Dahl hadn't mentioned the Network specifically, his speech was unguarded, convincing Fenton that other three were agents as well. Their comfort level conversing in front of Joe rang disconcerting alarm bells, almost familiar, but he didn't have the time to contemplate that. None of these people had anything to do with hiding Frank, and none of them could tell him where Clipboard, Rao, or Shuman might be.

"Fine, I stand updated." The detective made no effort to disguise the increasing edge in his voice. Most people couldn't intimidate a Network agent, particularly one that wasn't alone. Elias was two steps shy of a demonstration that Fenton Hardy wasn't most people. "I need to speak with Mr. Gray."

Dahl shook his head, shooing the other members of his team out of the room with a glance. "I'm as high up the food chain as you get today, Hardy. He's busy."

"He wouldn't be busy except for intel that Joe and I gave him."

"That makes no difference. I thought you weren't interested in what happens on Ranei anymore?"

Fenton stormed into the hallway, taking the other man with him. "I'm not. He has information on... other matters."

"He's occupied, what more can I say. Maybe your other matters aren't all that important in his world."

Arthur Gray had made all the travel arrangements for Frank. He'd know where Frank was right now, and who the most likely leak was if anything had gone awry. Fenton spoke to Elias again, emphasizing his point by shoving the man against the plaster wall with his forearm. "I don't care if he's storming Omaha beach or reorganizing the U.N. Get me in contact with Arthur. NOW."

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to be continued...


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N:** Hi everyone! Sorry about the few days off, work went crazy. One of the nurses on my team is on vacation this week, the other had a personal emergency, so I've been the lone ranger for days, arg! I can't thank everyone enough for the reviews, but if it makes it up to anyone, I can post another chapter or two tonight. You all are making a kinda lousy week soooooo much better !

 **CHAPTER 27**

Stretch. _Whoever designed plane seats escaped from Santa's elf workshop. What was his name again? Oh yeah, Herbie. Herbie doesn't like to make toys. Herbie doesn't like to make toys! Heck, maybe I'll be a dentist, probably don't have to fly much. Nah... too icky... Anyway, he was like two feet tall_. Joe fidgeted for the three thousandth time, then dared a glance to see if his father was watching. He couldn't believe he was actually on an aircraft twenty four hours post-op. Sure, he'd whined and wheedled and generally harassed the staff to discharge him, but it wasn't like he'd thought it would work.

Fenton had spent that time railng at Mr. Gray, first via radio and then in person. Naturally, Arthur had assigned someone else to literally plot Frank's travel itinerary, and naturally he swore they were trustworthy. When a telephone call to the States confirmed his son never reached his destination at the rehabilitation hospital, however, the Network agent absorbed Fenton's wrath and then unleashed it on his staff. Less than a day later, the search had been radically narrowed.

The elder Hardy shuffled the papers in his hand, frowning. Frank had been in Pennsylvania, and had travelled south as expected. His first urge had been to speak with the surgeon who treated Frank once he left Bayport and determine if he could shed any light on what happened next. The eight by eleven rectangle between his fingers pretty well precluded that. It was a faxed police report. Dr. Wilkins was dead, as was an EMT named Henry.

Police in the area had been blessedly cooperative, canvassing the local gas stations and the I-77 tollbooths for any signs of the stolen ambulance. The area where it went off grid was quite rural, consisting of a few small towns and Babcock State Park. Fenton was betting on the park, and he was sadly familiar with it. There'd been a well publicized murder there several years ago. Needing to return to the US as rapidly as humanely possible, he'd allowed himself to surrender to Joe's insistence that he was fit to travel.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Joe?"

"How much longer?"

"About five hours. We have to change planes in New York anyway, and the nearest major airport to Babcock is still two hours' drive after that. It's actually going to be faster to take the hopper flight to Bayport and get Jack to fly us to West Virginia from there so we can go to a smaller airstrip."

Joe knew as worried as his father was, there was a secondary reason for this plan as well. "And you can physically escort Chet to his door."

Fenton managed a smile. "No, not me. I think you get that particular honor. You found him. You see Chet home... in a cab, mind you... you're in no shape to drive... and I'll grab what we need from the house and meet you back at the private air terminal. I figure an hour to Bayport, an hour on the ground, then two more in the air, and a thirty minute drive into the mountains."

Joe shook his head. "Ten hours is too long."

"That's the quickest route there is, believe me, I called thirty people and yelled at half of them."

"Really? You don't lose your cool much, no matter what's wrong, but you did seem pretty worked up at Dahl."

"No, not really. Elias just does that to me."

 _Yeah, I noticed. So did half the hospital..._ "Why?"

Fenton sighed. "Story for another day, Joe. Rest some, I know you don't feel as well as that line of bull you fed Sianturi. Nine and half hours now."

Joe closed his eyes, no more in the mood to rest than to move to Nepal and start a sanctuary foundation for yetis. _Last time I felt like this, Frank didn't_ _ **have**_ _nine and half hours..._ "Still too long, Dad... way too long..."

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Thud.

Frank jerked at the sound, then saw the second of the loft's twin mattresses flop over the edge above, the splintered railing no longer an impediment. It landed with another thump beside his supine form and he heard his mother rushing back down the stairs. He hadn't managed to speak again since his initial croaked call for her, and she apparently intended to be at his side when he did. _Not trying to scare you, Mom, my throat is just really, really sore..._

Laura pulled the blue stripped padding into place on the floor beside the heaps of broken wood and turned to her son. The deep brown eyes were surprisingly open, watching her. "I need to move you over onto the bedding."

A flash of panic darted across his pale face, quickly replaced by resignation and a tiny nod. "O-k-kay."

He felt her hands slide under his back and head, the wood frame of the chair still bound to each limb but no longer bridging across his chest. A small tug lanced pain through his spine, but didn't result in him budging from his spot on the hardwood planks. A second one didn't go any better, eliciting a sharp hiss. "You c-can't. I'm too heavy."

"I got you from the top of all that junk to here." Laura shook her head, then picked up the kitchen knife once again. "If I get your ankles loose, can you push over a bit?"

"I'll t-try." Frank wasn't at all sure he could do anything of the sort, but he'd have to find out sooner or later. May as well be sooner. The cotton rope fell away from his ankles and knees, followed by the feel of polished wood peeling away from his clammy skin. His joints had long since cramped in their flexed position and Laura was easing the foot closest to her toward the floor.

Frank braced the sole of his foot against the wide boards, ready to propel himself sideways across a monumental gulf of six and half, heck, maybe seven inches. Unfortunately, as soon as his mind formulated the weak joke to distract him from how that was actually going to feel, Laura reached for his other leg.

"Mom, n-no."

Startled by the rasped force behind the words she froze. Everything else he'd said barely passed the timbre of a whisper. "What? What's wrong?"

"Can't s-straighten that one. B-broken maybe."

Laura's hands released his limb as if they'd suddenly been scalded, then slowly edged back that direction, gently working the hem of the sweat pants upward. A reddish purple lump mid-shin was already too swollen to permit the fabric to rise over it and she ripped the cloth to get it past. "How long have you known about that?! Anywhere else I need to see?"

"P-pretty much the s-second it happened." Frank closed his eyes, choosing to ignore the almost accusatory note that slipped into his mother's shaken voice. She wasn't upset with him, he knew that. She was scared. Come to think about it, so was he. "And s-side, maybe..."

"You didn't say anything!? How could you not cry out, whether you meant to or not?"

"Um... choking, r-remember?"

"I'm sorry, honey - not sure exactly when you were supposed to tell me that, or why I hadn't looked already. I'm not good at this, you know. I don't want to be good at it. You and your brother... every time you get hurt I think I ought to be able to slap a Spiderman band aid on there, pat you on the head, and send you to the tree house to play again. It's not supposed to be something a kiss won't fix; I'm supposed to be able to take care of my babies. It's in the 'Mom Can Fix Anything Handbook' somewhere, but you're not babies anymore and there's no edition of that handbook for raising a pair of teenagers that take on things that would make most grown men cower, and..." Laura rapidly checked him over for other injuries while she talked, spotting a multitude of scrapes, but no other obvious fractures. Strangely the right arm and shoulder seemed no worse than before, oddly protected by the wood tied there. A sort of pre-emptive splint, she guessed. The aimless chatter abruptly stopped, two unwelcome facts intruding on the nervous ramble. Frank's side was already developing a black tinge around a cut from his ribs to his hip... and he hadn't opened his eyes again. "Frank? Frank?"

Her fingers flew to his pulse again, but both that and his breathing were steady if a little rapid, the tight muscles at his jaw and scrunched eyes hinting this was more pain than unconsciousness. "Frank? Honey?"

Long minutes passed before he answered, his face smoothing out somewhat, although he still didn't open his eyes. "Y-yeah?"

He wasn't seeming so grown at the present. "It's going to be ok, honey. Here, help me slide you over on the bed." Mothering instincts reasserted themselves, the momentary lapse into expressing her own fear at the situation subjugated again, at least temporarily. The transfer to the thin mattress wasn't graceful, but Frank did manage to assist some with his better foot. "There. Now we can move easier."

Frank wasn't certain exactly what that meant until he felt the bed slide beneath him, his mother stopping when she had him maneuvered in front of the fireplace. The next half hour was lost in gentle attempts to clean and bandage cuts and splint his leg. _Didn't hide the shivering as well as I thought... ouch... ow... ow... ow, Mom, stop... hurts..._ The majority of the slash on his side was actually fairly shallow, only the lower end actively bleeding. Still, he couldn't keep from squirming when she lifted the wad of cloth plastered there to recheck it. _Hurts... just need a minute... gah... please... I promise not to die if you promise not to touch that again... hurts..._

The flinch wasn't lost on Laura, but neither was the growing red stain on what had been the bottom of her skirt. She folded fresh fabric into a square and pressed it against his side, wrapping another tatter around his torso to hold it firmly in place. "You ok? Need to stop a minute?"

"Nah, I'm f-fine." Not that she'd believe that, but he knew the truth wasn't going to benefit either of them. "Are y-you?"

A peculiar half laugh escaped her. "Actually, I have no idea. I think so. Let me put some more wood on this fire."

The blaze sufficiently fed, Laura rummaged the kitchen for clean towels and water. Setting that beside her son, she returned to the smashed bed frame and shelf. She hadn't told Frank that Clipboard snatched at her ankle earlier, but as vulnerable as her firstborn was she had to know about the detested soldier.

A dozen shifted boards later and it was obvious. Nearly jet eyes stared up at her, murderous, but he didn't say a word. It didn't appear that he could. A streak of blood trickled from the lower corner of his mouth and a jagged fragment of bone protruded from one arm and a thigh, provoking an odd sense of justice from the frazzled mother. Laura hesitated, some residual humanitarian snippet feeling obligated to assist the dying man, but the inherent rage at what he'd done to her sons, both of them, was nearly insurmountable.

Struggling through the tumult, she dragged him off the pile and onto the remaining mattress, finding it easier than moving Frank. The smaller colonel was somewhat lighter, plus she didn't especially care if she hurt him. She leaned over him, tying a strip of toweling above the speared bicep, when she noted the faint smile on his otherwise contorted expression. Following the line of his eyes, she became acutely aware of her torn dress. Repairing it was out of the question and she sought out anything that might be of use, finally spotting the shirt and pants the colonel had discarded on the bed earlier. The idea of wearing his clothes was distasteful, but it was certainly preferable to the letch leering at her underwear. Yanking the navy shirt over her head, she slipped the oversized pants on below her shredded skirt before pulling the remaining floral fabric down over her feet. The scraps of rope she'd cut from Frank converted into a adequate makeshift belt and she rolled up the pant legs, aware of how ridiculous she likely looked but far beyond caring.

She checked on Frank, grateful when he swallowed a few sips of water, and returned to Clipboard. She could see to it he didn't bleed to death for her own sanity, and that was more than he deserved . The dark bruises blooming on his abdomen, though, strongly suggested he was bleeding in places she couldn't see and wouldn't have been able to correct if she'd been so inclined. She wrapped another length of cloth around his leg, tying it as tightly as she could against the red seeping into the bedding below. She held a cup of water for him briefly and rose. She'd done what she could and more than she'd truly desired to. Survival now was up to him, any remaining energy she had was for her child. If the colonel died, well, she doubted very many people in the world would shed tears over that. She wouldn't.

Kneeling beside Frank again, she fussed over rechecking the smaller wounds that marred his pale skin in random hieroglyphics, gingerly peaking under the larger bandage intermittently. Every time she did the fear rooted in her heart grew a little more. Maybe she could bind the cloth more tightly somehow.

"Guhhh... Mom?"

"Hey, honey, stay still, ok?" She watched as his less than lucid countenance found hers. "You awake again?"

"Y-yeah. That bad, huh?"

"No, you'll be fine. I'm just having a trouble wrapping this right; that's all."

"Nice t-try. There's a reason J-Joe doesn't p-p-play poker - and he got it from y-you." Frank forced a dry swallow down his ravaged throat, eyes roaming the room. _Not really sure how to get out of here... but I think I better figure it out..._ "M-more water?"

Laura was so focused on raising his head enough to drink without injuring him any further that the groaning creaks from the scattered debris didn't register as important. Small bits of the unstable stack had been settling to the cabin floor unpredictably ever since Frank crashed the bookcase from above anyway. She tucked the blankets from the loft around him, frowning at the simultaneous chills and cold sweat less the ten feet from the hearth. Deciding to elevate his leg more than the dishcloths wadded under his ankle allowed, she selected a chunk of the shelf and swathed it in the plaid comforter she extricated from the mess. The kitchen blade made short work of another section of cotton rope, securing the fabric in place.

A bloodied hand clamped on her calf before she could turn back to Frank with her invention.

"Laura." Blood burbled from his mouth as Clipboard spoke. "I shall still... kill... your traitor son before I die." He dragged himself closer, using her leg as a handle.

The petite woman lost precious seconds to sheer terror, but then the rebellion leader miscalculated. Drawing even with her knees, he fell forward, his face landing squarely on her stomach - which he bit.

Revolted, Laura scrambled from beneath him, kicking out as she worked her way free. Every instinct shouted at her to shriek, but she couldn't do that. There was a tiny chance Frank wouldn't identify the sounds of the struggle for what it was, but he would never ignore her screaming. Her heel connected with the colonel's forehead and she was loose, frantically pushing up to stand.

Clipboard tripped her, drawing out the scream she'd fought to squelch, but he never heard it.

"NO! Let me GO!" Laura finished the exclamation automatically, not yet realizing she was on the floor, the colonel motionless below. She certainly hadn't registered that she'd still held the knife in her fist when he came at her, nor had she intentionally thrust the blade as she fell. All of that was true, but irrelevant. Levering off the crumpled form she saw it.

The wide steel cutlery was sunk to the hilt in the almond colored throat, the blood surrounding it no longer pumping out, proving him dead.

"Mom?! MOM!" Frank couldn't see behind him and the silence dredged up a thousand explanations, each one worse. _What happened?! Come on answer... answer... I have to get up... hurts... gotta... come on, Hardy... get your lazy butt up... gotta help her... gah... answer me..._ "MOM?!"

He made it up to one elbow, the scene before him halting his efforts more quickly than any pain could. His mother sat on the floor, blood smeared over her _her?_ shirt. The Ranien militia colonel sprawled over the wooden planks, knife handle protruding from his neck and lifeless eyes rolled backward.

"M-mom? You ok?" The blank stare unnerved him. "Mom? Any of that b-blood yours?"

Laura finally scooted across the floor to her son, plopping heavily beside him and listlessly brushing back his hair. "I... ah... yes, I'm fine... He's, um, he's dead. I didn't ... I didn't try to stab him, but... he's dead... Blood's all his... The knife, I still had it... I was cutting rope... he's dead..."

Frank caught her hand, not strong enough to hold onto it if she didn't let him, and waited.

The shaking lessened slowly as the adrenaline rush waned and she finally actually saw her son. "Frank? I killed him. He was grabbing me and I killed him."

"Mom... d-doesn't matter. He d-doesn't matter." Frank gripped her hand tighter. "You need to get out of here, go f-find some help." Speaking was exhausting.

"I can't leave you here, Frank. You're hurt and your side's still bleeding. Probably more now that you sat up. And why are you sitting up?" Her palms pressed him back to the mattress.

 _Hardly class getting one elbow half under me as sitting up..._ "OK, not sitting." He weighed how much to tell her, hating to frighten her any further but surmising he wasn't fooling her anyway. "I know it's b-bleeding, that's why I need you to g-go. I'll be okay 'til you c-come back."

"I'm not leaving. If you're that sure you'll be alright for a little while, then we should wait together."

He shook his head, instantly regretting the motion. "Mom, I d-doubt Clipboard intended to live the Grizzly A-adams life for long, and he d-ditched the ambulance. His f-friends are coming to get him... get us. Y-you can't b-be here when that h-happens... and I c-can't walk out." _They'll be like him... maybe exactly like him and she can't take that chance again... can't let them put their hands on Mom... if she leaves and I die... well... ...I made that decision when I flipped over that railing..._

"You're absolutely sure you'll be ok until I can bring help?"

 _Forgive me..._ "Y-yeah, I'm sure."

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to be continued...


	29. Chapter 29

**.**

 **.**

 **CHAPTER 28**

"Goodness, I could sleep for a year. I thought vacation was supposed to be relaxing." Callie tossed her bags down on her bed, absently stroking the oversized cat that rose to stretch at her arrival.

He arched his spine nearly double toward the ceiling before crouching his front end low, front legs straight out as far as they would go and rump in the air as his claws repeatedly perforated the loose linen weave of the duvet cover in a kneading pattern. Content with the trail of punch holes and shed fur in his wake, the black persian curled his not inconsequential girth into a ball and closed his eyes, the faint rumble of purring dying out as he returned to sleep.

"Some friend you are, Fudgesicle. I'm gone for days and all I get from you is thirty seconds and then it's right back to 'oh, it's the humans, I thought it might be important' routine." Callie drew a photo out of the now unzipped canvas tote, carefully positioning it on the white painted nightstand. It was a snapshot of Frank taken at Christmas, the older Hardy casually perched on the arm of his parent's sofa. The black turtleneck and grey pants contrasted with the pale creams of the living room, somehow making him appear more vibrant that the remainder of the photograph, even with a deep blue sweater clad Joe lurking in the background. Frank hadn't known she was snapping the picture, deeply engaged in laughing at Joe's antics stringing tinsel around Vanessa rather than the tree. "How are we going to get him that happy again, Fudge? Hmm?"

Callie shifted her conversation to direct it at Frank instead of the dozing cat. It didn't much matter that Fudge was the one actually in the room, since he took great pride in never bothering to respond when spoken to. That was unfair - he did manage to respond to the words kitty treat with surprising haste.

"Frank Hardy, you better be ok, you hear me?" She flopped on the sunny yellow fabric, eliciting a faint grunt from the ever indignant feline. "You just better be ok... 'cause you've got promises to keep to a girl, mister, and I'm not letting you out of any of them..."

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The plane touched down in New York in a blowing rain, the younger Hardy irrationally deciding it followed him home like some sort of meteorological stow away. He knew that wasn't reasonable, but he wasn't particularly in the mood to be reasonable, so it worked out. Fortunately, by the time the shorter transfer flight touched down in Bayport, the precipitation was merely a drizzle. A wan water-gray sky streaked over the bay's granite cliffs, an entire palate emerging in the shades from nearly white mist to dark charcoal. The taxi Fenton had contacted en route was waiting for them at the terminal.

Joe unfolded himself from the airplane seat with what was surely an audible creak, stiff in muscles he hadn't known existed. _I got a decent grade in physiology, too... What was that ridiculous expression? Feels like somebody beat me with a bat? Turns out that saying isn't all that humorous when that's pretty much what actually happened_. _No, not a bat. Mostly feet... had my lifetime supply of getting kicked on this trip if it's all the same to you future criminal masterminds..._

He swayed, grabbing at the rail on the steps to disembark with the hand that wasn't wrapped like a mummy. All that gauze would have to go. A wide spread palm pressed hurriedly between his shoulder blades, keeping him upright. Chet. Typical of his friend to catch him. Chet wasn't flashy, often didn't say a lot that couldn't be classed as conversational chatter, but when you needed him, he was always there, requiring no request to help nor expecting any reward afterward. "Thanks."

Chet shook his head slightly. "No problem. You ok?"

"That might be an exaggeration, but I'll live. You?" Joe stood perfectly still, willing the vertigo to pass before the paltry in flight breakfast made a reappearance.

"Same." Chet shifted from one foot to the other, becoming inexplicably nervous the closer he got to home. He hadn't given his parents their flight information, preferring to see them again for the first time at the farm, and of course he was eager to arrive, but there was a fearfulness as well. So much had changed.

Joe nodded and resumed his descent to the tarmac. His father was standing at the bottom of the seven steps, outwardly waiting on his son, inwardly prepared to catch him if he fell headlong. "I'm fine, Dad."

"In the last week you've been drugged, beaten, starved, stabbed, and shot, along with whatever events you've opted not to share. I'm allowed to hover a bit, Joe." Fenton steadied his son's last few steps and led him to the waiting cab. He could collect all their baggage later. "I'm impressed with your powers of persuasion, though. I didn't think you'd manage to get yourself released from the hospital with broken ribs and a bullet hole in your thigh."

"The ribs are only cracked and the bullet hole's gone, they sewed it up. I don't think you can count that stake through my hand as stabbed, either; it didn't go through the main part, just nicked the webbing. Dr. Sianturi said none of those things alone would have gotten me admitted individually anyhow, it was just the combination that concerned him. You know me, ninety-seven and two thirds percent indestructible." Joe arced an eyebrow in mock challenge.

Fenton ignored it, clapping Chet on the back briefly as he climbed into the car before turning toward Joe once more, an uncharacteristically revealing expression on his face. "Yeah, well, it concerned me too, ok? And I'd have to consult with Mr. Webster to swear to it, but I'm fairly certain anytime a foreign object pierces your hide because someone else shoved it there, that qualifies as stabbed."

He squared a hand on each shoulder, inspecting his youngest child for the sort of injuries that escape the eye but sear the soul. "Are you ready to tell me what happened over there?"

Joe paused, allowing the devil may care smile to slide from his face. "Wouldn't matter if I was Dad, it's not the time. I'm not sure it's ever going to be the time."

His father searched the sapphire eyes that always spoke more than his son's words and decided Joe had it under control for now. He doubted the physical distress of whatever occurred had any bearing on the somber, anxious mood underlying the resilient outward demeanor anyway. What was gnawing at Joe was guilt, pure and simple, and the best cure for that was bringing Frank home.

"Ok." Why is it the most complicated emotions in life fall victim to the same simple diction as the decision to have a stick of gum or replace your shoelaces? "Drop Chet off and I'll meet you back here. There are a few things I want to pick up at the house."

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The taxi ride was almost silent, Chet staring out the window at the outer rim of Bayport as if he'd never seen it before and Joe hesitant to intrude. Twenty minutes later the vehicle left the curving two lane pavement for a narrow gravel lane, splashing through muddy brown potholes. The lane diverged in a Y after half a mile, the left fork leading into the woods and the right extending another quarter mile to the Morton farm house.

Chet signaled the driver as soon as he turned right. "If you could park beside the elm tree just around the next curve, I'd rather walk from there."

The cabbie shrugged in a suit yourself gesture and let the boys out, popping the trunk for the scant carry on items stowed there. Chet had a backpack, borrowed from Mr. Hardy and filled with a small selection of Joe's clothes. They were all too big. Chet shouldered the bag and took a few steps, turning around when he didn't feel Joe behind him.

"I'm sorry, Joe. I didn't think about you not being able to walk it."

"Nah, it's not that." Joe's gaze roamed over the landscape, the early summer fields a rich green in the rain, unconcerned black and white cows and this year's calves wandering about. The stained tin roof of the clapboard farmhouse peaked over the closest knoll, yellow light glowing in both upper windows on the near end of the house. Chet's room - and Iola's. The barn lay beyond the house, its warm earthy red subdued by the foggy weather and distance. With a start he realized he was looking for the porch swing, but blessedly the angle of the hill obscured the first story of the home from view. _Will I ever come here and not look for Iola on that swing? Or under her willow tree?_ The comfortable sense of familiarity and safety the farm had brought Joe as long as he could remember, even after Iola's death in a wistful sort of way, evaporated. The last words he'd heard here clanged through his head mercilessly.

#

 _"You're sorry? Is that supposed to make me feel better, because it doesn't. I've got a whole room full of 'I'm sorry' upstairs already, Joe. A room full of plum lace curtains and horse sketches and an untouched prom dress and a whole cart load of sorry, but what it's not full of is my daughter. So I'm sorry from you doesn't cover it." She panted in just enough air to resume the hysterical tirade._

 _"I let you back in our lives after Iola for Chet. For Chet! How ironic is that? He was so alone and he didn't want to lose his best friend on top of his sister. He convinced me you and Frank were a package deal. So I smiled, and made cookies and played Suzy Q. Homemaker while I let the boy who stole my daughter's life back into my home. And now you've done it to your own brother and my probably my son, too. How dare you come here after killing both my children? How dare you do that, Joseph Hardy!? GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"_

 _#_

"I'm sorry, Chet."

"For what?" Chet cast a perplexed glance at his uncharacteristically melancholy friend.

Joe laughed, a choked little lonely sound. "That's a longer list than you want to tackle. For getting you into this whole mess, I guess. Go see your parents."

"You didn't get me into anything, Joe, unless you joined the Raneian militia when I wasn't looking."

"Nah, not so much." Poking the dirt clod at the end of Joe's sneaker became suddenly fascinating.

"You mad I'm not coming with you to rescue Frank?"

Joe jerked his head up at that. "What?! Of course not. You've been through hell; you need to rest."

"Not like I've got an exclusive claim to touring Hades lately." The statement was quiet, but Joe heard the gravity of the invitation to talk there.

"Guess not."

The moment stretched out, the well worn friendship still comfortable even if the farm wasn't. Chet broke it first, starting to walk toward his childhood home. "Maybe we'll just trade war stories when you get home with Frank... So, you coming?"

"No."

"No?"

Joe resumed his attack on the dirt clod, mentally closing the door on some of the best portions of his childhood. It hurt. whispering his answer. "I'm not welcome here anymore, Chet. I never will be."

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to be continued...


	30. Chapter 30

**.**

 **.**

 **CHAPTER 29**

"J-Joe?" Frank blinked his eyes against the sun slanting through the window, blinding any effort to see. He'd been asleep, that much seemed obvious, and every inch ached. An attempt to roll over shot a sadly familiar pain down his right arm and one sharper but less recognized through his opposite leg, clearing the vestiges of sleep from his brain.

The cabin coalesced into its brown wood angles and stone fireplace, the last several days coming back into focus along with it. He was alone, he remembered that now. His mother left at first light, seeking help. From the angle of the light, he'd guess it was now late afternoon. That thought brought out a frown. Fifteen to twenty minutes to return to the ambulance crash site, then a few hours to walk to the main portion of the park? He had to admit he really had no idea how long the second portion of the trip should take. The drive over bumpy dirt roads had taken less than an hour, he was certain of that, but how much of the twisting pavement was also inside the state park boundaries? Was he even right about being in Babcock at all? Anyway he looked at it, Laura should have returned by now.

Frank tugged at the comforter, pulling it under his chin. The fire was dying down and his goose bumps were apparently totally unaware that it was early summer. Either that or they were practicing anarchists. Nighttime was cool in the mountains year around, he knew that, but he didn't think it should be this cold during the day. He slipped his fingers under the outer layers of cloth bound around his waist, gasping at a ragged edge that felt nothing like fabric, and then held them before his eyes for inspection. Well, that pretty much explained it. Slick and red. He rolled slightly, fingertips searching for the water his mother left for him, but a wave of dizziness precluded even that small movement and his head fell back to the mattress, the timbered ceiling spinning vaguely to the left. _Wow, hurts more than I thought... thirsty..._

 _Ever notice that rose red, fire engine red, blood red... well, they're all pretty much the same color, but the labels sure don't conjure up the same thoughts. If I convince myself that my fingers are rose red, am I going to feel any better about them being blood covered? I doubt it. I'll have to remember to tell Mrs. Knapp that all her English lectures about connotation and subjective interpretation don't mean diddle squat if you're laying on a cabin floor lord knows where making a better than average attempt at bleeding to death... Nah, not that great an attempt, come to think about it. Couldn't have been bleeding the whole time or I would have succeeded in dying by now... must have aggravated it when I moved... besides, I've got a normal clotting process as far as I know... yeah can you imagine how that would work out?... Joe or I with a clotting disorder... definitely have to take up a new line of work then... thirsty... can't remember if those affect the intrinsic or extrinsic portion of the clotting cascade... If I wasn't alone I could ask somebody... not really alone, though, good ol' Clipboard's here... but he's dead... really wasn't much of a charming conversationalist anyway... I'll ask Joe when I see him... I don't think that clotting stuff was from school though... some article I read... maybe Joe read it... yeah, cause it was published in Car and Driver, no doubt..._

 _Wonder how long it takes to drive here... oh, yeah, already decided I didn't know that... you better be healthy enough to drive, little brother... but not to here, ok?... somewhere safe... heard you say you didn't want to deliver that eulogy for real... not so sure how that's going to work out... never promised I wouldn't make you do it...meant to, but didn't get a chance to talk to you again... wonder if I ever will...need you here, Joe... afraid you need me... should have come after you... knew that... sorry... I'm so thirsty... I might be rambling... probably not a good sign... everything hurts... Shock maybe?... it's so cold... But if I'm going into shock I wouldn't recognize it, right? Actually I have no idea if that's true or not... Mom said you had all your notes for the church on that yellow legal pad paper... hope you didn't throw them out..._

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"This one's clear." Fenton leaned against the rough exterior wall of the cabin, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. It certainly didn't rival the oppressive heat of the islands, but the day was unseasonably warm. Seven cabins checked, twenty-three to go.

Joe rounded the corner of the building, his shoulder sliding along the weathered wood as he limped toward his dad. "Yeah, I don't see anything either."

Fenton watched his son struggle to stand straight, noting the labored breathing and increasing dependence on inanimate objects for support. Concerned, he crossed to a nearby flat topped rock and sat down. "Let's take a break."

"I don't need a break, Dad."

"No, you need to let one of the officers take you back to the police station to wait there."

"The police said I could help with the search."

"The police said it was a public park and since they had no firm evidence it was a crime scene, they couldn't stop you. That's not the same thing." Fenton sighed, turning sideways to get a better look at Joe. "I know how much you need to find your brother, but it's not going to help Frank if you make yourself worse."

"I have to be here, Dad, he wouldn't leave me. I'll keep up, I promise. You won't have to sit down for me again." Joe lurched his way to his feet, fingers automatically gripping Fenton's shoulder when he lost his balance.

"Joe, stop. Sit back down a minute. You're running on adrenaline and panic." Fenton tugged slightly downward on an elbow. "There's nothing wrong with needing a break."

"But Frank and Mom..."

"We will find them." Fenton hoped he sounded more confident than he actually felt. The information he'd obtained from the Network could only tell him where Frank had been, not where he was now. The state police had done an admirable job of compiling information on sightings of the ambulance, but concluding Clipboard had brought his family to the park from there was little more than a qualified hunch. One local law enforcement agreed with, but still a hunch. Two other teams were searching alternate possible sites and the area highways all had roadblocks in place. If none of that panned out, then the less promising task of helicopter sweeps of the surrounding forest would begin in the morning. If Clipboard had access to a private home in the region or switched vehicles before the road checks went up, well then, the odds of seeing his wife and eldest son alive again weren't very good. Joe knew those odds as well as he did, both silently agreeing not to discuss it. "We'll find them."

"Not if we don't get moving." Joe stood again, and this time his father joined him.

"Ok, but if you need to rest you tell me."

Joe nodded, both of them knowing it would never happen.

"Mr. Hardy? Mr. Hardy!?" The shout carried through the foliage, the forest camouflaging direction. "Mr. Hardy? Sir, you should see this."

Fenton scrambled through the branches and brambles, sliding down the moss and fern covered slope toward the raised voices. He stopped cold behind the grey uniformed trooper, following his stare over the ravine edge to a white metallic object below. A tire was visible also, tread uselessly skyward. They'd found the ambulance.

By the time repelling equipment allowed descent to the wreckage, Joe was standing behind his father, almost afraid to breathe. They hadn't gone through all of this to find Frank and his mother in a twisted metal hulk. Although Clipboard in there wouldn't be so bad.

"Empty!" The officer's voice carried up from below, restarting the world for the father and son above. He arrived topside a few minutes later, lofting a navy blue duffle and tan leather purse over the rock edge before him. "These belong to your family?"

Fenton accepted them with a wordless nod. They had to be close.

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"I need help. I think I got lost, I was going to the Babcock park office. Please, if I could use your phone..." Laura stumbled, exhausted.

"Hi there, sugar. You look like you found a whole world of trouble. What in the blue blazes happened?" The taller of the two men emerged from beneath the rusted hood of the ancient pickup truck he'd been repairing, wiping a grease covered hand on hole ridden jeans as he approached.

Laura retreated a few steps, instinctively wary. "I just need to use a phone. Please."

The man scratched at his dirty bare belly absently, eying the petite woman in front of him. "Are those your clothes, darlin'? Look a mite oversized for you."

"Yes, I suppose. Do you have a phone? I really need to make a call." She was trying desperately not to appear agitated, sensing these men might be demanding if they realized how important this was to her.

"You sound like a city gal. Thought you types all had cell phones? Not that you'd get any reception out here, anyhow."

"Do... You... Have... A... Phone!?"

"Hey, doll, no need to get your dander up. Course we got a phone. Come on in for a bite to eat and then you can call whoever. Looks like a little chow wouldn't hurt you none, think we've got some berry cobbler." He took another step toward her, an overly appreciative stare transforming into frown. "Carl, get over here."

The older of the pair ceased working on the truck and walked over. "What?"

"Come here and take a look at the filly. She's got blood on her clothes."

Carl stepped uncomfortably close, plucking at the heavy fabric of her shirt. "Sure enough. I'm assuming you ain't been gutting no deer, you don't look the type. What happened?"

"Please, it doesn't matter right now. I just need to call the police."

"Whoa, now. Whatcha need the cops for? Carl and I can help you out, hon."

"Thomas, you hush up. Look at her jaw. Those are fingerprint bruises. Walk her into the house and show her where the phone is."

"So she got into it with her old man. So what. Pretty thing out here on her own has got to expect a little ribbing. He'll be around to fetch her directly, I'd reckon."

Laura backed away slowly, thoroughly intending to run once she was out of reach. Somebody besides the Deliverance twins had to have a telephone.

"Hey, there, no need to go. Thomas's a bit rough around the edges, but he don't mean no harm. We got a cordless if you don't want to go in the house."

"That would be best." Her fingers shook to the point that she almost couldn't dial, and she began to softly cry when a recording informed her the region had no 911 service.

"You're serious about having trouble, aren't you, lady?" Carl leaned over, his dusty grey ponytail slipping over his shoulder. "Just dial the operator and ask for the local state police detachment. Tell them you're up at the old Hager homeplace."

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"Mom?" The word stuck in his parched throat, his tongue plastered to the roof of his mouth. Frank wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep this time. _She must have come back by now? Please? But if it's Mom why's she so rough..._ "That hurts... Gah, stop!... p-please, Mom... water..."

"I'm not your mom, kid." The man looming over him finished yanking the mattress from below his body, motioning to one of his cohorts to drag it over to the window. "And I don't give a crap what hurts. Shut up."

 _Clipboard's friends... great... now it's just a matter of figuring out if I'll die before they kill me..._ A boot shoved against his lower spine unleashed a scream. "GAAHHH! S-TOP!"

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The crackle of the police radio in his hand distracted Fenton from peering through the wavy glass of yet another cabin window. He walked a short distance away, having trouble hearing the words embedded in the static.

Joe peripherally saw his father leave, only pausing in his trip around the small wood structure when Fenton sunk onto a nearby log, thumb rubbing over the gold of his wedding band. He tried to run toward his dad, his mind and feet both rebelling. There was news... but did he want it?

"Over here!" Fenton's yell brought everyone his direction, not just Joe. "We need to get to the end cabin by the stream. I take it there are two sets?"

One of the park rangers nodded. "Cabin fourteen and eight are both at the end of a trail near a stream."

The detective gestured at the ATV's they'd been using between cabin areas. "We'll take eight, radio the other team to check fourteen." As soon as everyone moved toward the vehicles, he pulled Joe aside.

"Your mother's fine, Joe. She found a local house and the police are picking her up now."

"Frank?"

"He's injured and in the cabin. That's all I know."

Joe nodded, the nagging sensation that Frank was running out of time growing exponentially.

The ride to cabin number eight consumed only nine or ten minutes, unfortunately more than enough time for a hundred visions of Frank sprawled dead in the forlorn structure to imprint themselves in Joe's head. The engines cut off sooner than he'd expected, the roof of the cabin barely visible at the end of a meadow. He was about to ask why they didn't move in closer when he spotted the break in the tall grass. Someone else was here.

Joe pointed at the narrow tire tracks, but Fenton and the three men with him were already crouched down inspecting them.

"Two different ATV's, maybe three." Fenton's assessment was met with agreement all around.

Joe stepped further to the side, looking a track in the mud. "Frank's here."

One of the policemen peered over his shoulder. "How do you know that track's his?"

"It's barefoot, for starters. This is sedge grass; it cuts. You'd wear shoes if you had a choice. Second, the weight's mostly on the inside of his foot for a few steps, then outside, then back again. Most people are consistent in their stride. Whoever made these tracks was stumbling around. There's even a knee print a few paces ahead."

"You've convinced me whoever made them is injured, anyway. Hate to say it, but the most logical explanation is that it was your brother." The officer tossed a grim smile at Fenton. It seemed the man hadn't been exaggerating when he told them the blonde teen could pull his own weight on the search. "Now it's a matter of whether the others here are friend or foe."

Joe gave him a somewhat incredulous look. "Is there really any doubt about that?"

The officer had to admit that a friendly presence in the cabin was unlikely. Before he could answer, however, two shots rang out from inside the wooden structure, leaving the park ranger and Joe Hardy on the ground.

 _Guess not..._

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 _to be continued..._


	31. Chapter 31

A/N: Getting toward the end of this one, folks, a few chapters to go. I so appreciate all the reviews this past week - Cherylann, Paulina Ann, EvergreenDreamweaver, ErinJordan, BMSH, thank you, I appreciate the insights and kind comments. Portions of this story are difficult both in the writing and the reading, but it isn't meant to be an opportunity to thump on the boys, although I concede that certainly happens. There are a number of stories to follow these, some action oriented, some not, and the events in Coming of Age and Charades shape how Frank and Joe choose to react to those storylines. Anyway, back to the tale...

 **CHAPTER 30**

"DOWN!"

The state trooper's command was about as needful as molasses in pickle relish; his fellow officer, the second park ranger, and Fenton Hardy having dropped to the earth before the retort of the second shot faded away. The long meadow grass swallowed the fallen bodies into silence, the breeze weaving the lush green strands about in a whispering sea that was deceptively pristine. A casual observation in that instant would have found nothing amiss, the noise of a few seconds earlier replaced by the faint rustle of tender leaves and the hum of insects.

"Joe?" Fenton hissed the name out, heart pounding against his ribs waiting on an affirmation that didn't come. He inched his way onto his elbows, creeping through the damp roots of the grass toward his last glimpse of his son. "Joe? Joseph?"

The urge to call out, to quell the fear encompassed in the sound of his name was almost insurmountable, but Joe remained mute, the center of his world temporarily reduced to the mud clogged tread of a dark brown boot. He clamped his teeth on his lower lip, the knots of the sutures there rough against the tip of his tongue. Anything to distance himself from a fire spreading in pulsatile waves from his bicep and an oppressive weight seeping sticky warmth onto his back.

Joe held his breath when the boot approached. He and the ranger had been the closest to the cabin's right side before the shooting started, and Joe knew no one else could have seen a man slip out of the downstairs window. Trapped on his stomach with the park ranger weighing him down, he could only view the soil laden boots and the distal tip of a pistol. Right now, silence qualified as a survival mandate. The toe of the boot wormed its way between Joe and the body above him, rolling the ranger off.

The man from the cabin crouched down, his back turned to Joe as he checked the ranger over, releasing a satisfied grunt when his hand failed to find a pulse. He planted a knee in the earth, executing a pivot toward the blonde teen behind him. Slick crimson smeared the youth from shoulder blades to his waist. Dead, then, or dying. Still, a flicker of something caught his eye.

Joe cursed the ant currently meandering up the bridge of his nose. He'd flinched ever so slightly when the tiny creature crossed the forest of his eyelashes, and the gunman stiffened at the motion. He simply hadn't figured out yet what had caught his attention. Joe heard the safety click off his gun. _Wonderful, he's figuring it out..._

A nearly eternal paused ensued, the gunman raising his weapon in direct line with Joe's sight; Joe analyzing and discarding options, each one certifiably worthless. A scream was tempting as an instinctive, primitive response to both pain and terror, but he recognized any sound he made would be a final verbal offering. There was no way his father or the remaining officers could save him before the gun six inches from his eye ended his life. Playing dead had the advantage of not being that far from the truth, but the imperative to draw another breath couldn't be delayed much longer. _Playing dead works for opossums... yeah, right, cause I never see any of those dead all over the highway. May want to seek survival advice elsewhere..._

The plan he selected had perhaps a five percent chance of working, which some part of his mind estimated as about four and half percent higher than anything else he could come up with. Probably the same part that was making mental wisecracks about opossums instead of figuring a way out of this predicament. There was as much an advantage in maintaining the bucolic illusion for the man from the cabin as for Joe, as any sound would provide the remaining police with a target of their own. Joe had to assume he wouldn't risk firing at someone who might already be dead.

Unintentionally cooperating with Joe's strategy, the kneeling man reached two fingers toward the youth's neck, relaxing his aim. Joe rolled over and sprang upward simultaneously, twisting the man beneath him. His left hand wrapped around the gunman's wrist, forcing the gun over his head, parallel along the ground, while his right forearm pressed down on the other man's neck. The two rolled and kicked in an attempt to gain control of the situation, neither clearly achieving the advantage. Joe was younger and more muscular, but injured; his adversary was slight and weaker, but healthy, armed, and eager to kill his opponent.

The noise of the struggle carried to those concealed in the blanket of grass, Fenton belly crawling to his son before the others could reach him. A clear shot without striking his child was impossible as long as Joe was on top of the deadly wrestling match, relegating his father to mere watching, the previous hammering in his chest inconsequential compared to the percussive onslaught thrumming through him now.

Joe felt the muscles in his arm begin to tremble. He'd been able to maintain a sort of status quo, but was no nearer to subduing the other man than he had been at the start, his only achievement forestalling his own murder _. Not that I'm opposed to that as a goal... last chance..._

Finally wedging his knee between the two of them, Joe surrendered his advantage and allowed himself to be flipped over, whispering a quick prayer that he hadn't committed a fatal mistake. As soon as his spine pressed into the wadded grasses, he released his hands and snapped his leg straight, flinging his opponent away. He knew the other man would fire his weapon, and predictably he did, leaving a confused Joe to figure out whether the bullet had pierced him. The absence of new pain was somehow more surprising than death would have been. _That actually worked... never would have expected that... huh... Dad? Could use a little help..._

A gunshot echoed once more.

 _Not the sort of help I was thinking of, but that works too..._ Joe saw his attacker stand and re-aim the gun at his forehead in the instant before the crack, then crumple back to the ground after his father's shot.

"Joe!? Joe, you ok?" Fenton half rose and darted to his son's side, immediately locking eyes.

Joe was panting too hard to answer, settling for a tiny nod instead.

"You didn't answer before. God, kiddo, you scared me."

"Sorry." The rasp blended into the wind and he cleared his throat to try again. "Inevitable part of this work...It's ok."

"What idiot sold you that bill of goods?"

"You."

Fenton snorted. "Of all my lectures you've attended and ignored, that's the one line you remember? That was about avoiding dysfunctional guilt related to on the job incidents in police partnerships. I'm your dad. That makes you getting shot on my watch not okay." His hands scoured over his child, seeking an entrance wound he didn't want to find. His eyes widened in alarm when his hand left Joe's back coated in red.

"Not mine. My arm." Joe gestured with his chin, his breathing struggling to reach the general neighborhood of normal. "Couldn't answer, Dad. Figured third time wasn't going to be the charm with being human target practice."

"No, you were right. Stay still, this really isn't that bad." Fenton ripped the end of Joe's sleeve and wrapped the deep crease in his upper arm, relieved to discover a graze rather than a gaping hole.

"Ugh... ...uh, ow. Yeah. You convincing me, or you?"

"Whoever manages to believe it first." Fenton tied a knot awkwardly, both of them staying low to the ground, using the gold seeded meadow grass to hide their position.

One of the state troopers approached, also crab crawling within the weeds. His face softened a bit at the sight of the younger Hardy conversing with his father. "The remaining ranger and my partner are moving to the opposite point. Mr. Hardy, if you can take the right center, I'll go right corner. We'll have to wait them out if they're this willing to fire without engaging in any kind of negotiation. There are at least two men at the windows."

"Agreed. Once everyone is in position, I can try to engage them in some sort of dialogue; at least confirm Frank is in there. I assume the other team is en route?"

The officer nodded, but his reply was interrupted by Joe.

"Dad, no. There's a better way."

"I'm listening."

"The window on the side. I could see the forest through it."

Fenton nodded. "Then there's another window opposite that one."

"Not directly, it was an angled reflection. In the back of the cabin toward the same side, I'd guess." Joe willed a more energetic expression onto his face, hoping to disguise a bone weary fatigue. It wasn't a spectacular success, the dark purple shadows below his eyes more deeply hued than the unusually intense irises. "The ground slopes up, the window won't be that high off the ground. I can get in there."

Fenton began to vigorously shake his head. "I admit it sounds doable, but waiting is safer."

"Not for Frank." The statement was simple and raw.

The state trooper chimed in. "The other park ranger is taller than you and slimmer, he'll fit better."

"He doesn't know Frank."

The officer appeared confused. "There's no way to sneak more than one person inside and I don't see anyone alone in there being able to do much good. Although if someone could get a visual without going in, get us a head count and an idea of your brother's condition, that would be useful. I'll get the other ranger on it."

"It won't work if it's not me." Joe ignored the police officer altogether, his gaze resting squarely on his dad. "They won't be watching me, probably think they nailed me the first time, and if there's any chance of communicating with Frank, I can do that better than anybody. You know that."

Fenton closed his eyes, silently apologizing to Laura before he spoke. Strategically, it made sense. "Are you sure you can do this, Joe?"

"I'm sure."

"What if Frank's not in any condition to communicate with anyone? What then?"

"Then what happens doesn't much matter, does it? I put him in this situation, Dad."

"That's not true."

"Can we debate it later?"

Fenton exchanged a long look with his child. Not so much a child now. "I hope we get that chance. Let's do this. Go limp." He hooked his arms beneath Joe's, locking one hand over the opposite wrist in front of his sternum before dragging his youngest through the grass as dead weight. He backed away from the cabin, making a point of crossing in front of the anterior window, Joe's heels bouncing along the ground.

 _If they didn't think I was dead before, they do now... now to get around to the back..._ "Dad?" The inquiry was a whisper.

"Yes?"

"I never ignored your lectures."

"I know that, Joey. I know."

"I'm telling you there are more of them than us now, even with park ranger and the other Hardy kid down for the count. We have to get out of here." The taller of Clipboard's two remaining associates paced the interior of the cabin, raking fingers through greasy red hair in between aimless punches against the wall. "Put a bullet in that brat and be done with it."

"What good is that going to do, Einstein? We're still stuck whether this one's alive or dead. He killed the colonel. I say we have a little fun while we wait." He launched another vicious kick into the ribs of the youth sprawled at his feet, laughing at the agonized grunt that followed.

"What's your sudden loyalty to that crazy politico anyway? You sound like one of his nutcase followers."

The shorter one whirled on his partner, anger darkening his pale skin. "I'm not loyal to his so called revolution, stupid, but who exactly do you think is gonna pay us now? We were the el Capitan over there's ride out of here. I doubt his cronies are going to pony up for a corpse."

The first one seemed thoughtful, side stepping a pile of splintered rubble to point at Frank. "Maybe they'd pay for the kid, here."

"Same argument. He'll be a stiff soon whether I waste ammunition on him or not. This job just became about getting some free entertainment out of the deal, 'cause there's not gonna be any money." His foot slammed Frank again.

"You said fun while we wait. Wait for what? Not like our fairy godmother's going to show up and float us to the moon. We ought sell that kid to his pop for a ticket out of here."

"Can't."

"Why the heck not?" He stopped pacing and glared at the bloody teenager on the floor.

"Because whatever trouble we get into for killing the brat will be small potatoes compared to what Colonel Manado's supporters will do if we let him live."

Red hair had to make an effort to stop his mouth from gaping open. "Your last trip to the state pen must have been more fun than mine, because ending up there forever for murder doesn't fall in my definition of small potatoes."

"That's because you never got up close and personal with the colonel's flunkies. I have."

"The people out in that glade aren't going to let us go. We killed a cop."

"Park ranger."

"Well, that makes it all hunky dory then, doesn't it? Let's trade the kid."

"You don't get it, do you? The minute we walked in here and found Manado dead, our best hope was to deliver his murderer to his subordinates in the islands. Now there's no way to do that. That boils our options down to get arrested or get dead. Of the two, I'm partial to arrested, but I'm gettin' in a few jollies first. Besides, if we kill the kid with as much, um, enthusiasm as Manado would have, the islanders just might, maybe, leave us alive in prison." The next kick landed somewhere along Frank's ear.

"Dead's dead. How is a group of nuts halfway around the world going to know exactly how a single American teenager died?"

"My lord but you're dense. Did you personally sail over there to get this job? 'Cause I sure didn't. That group of nuts, as you put it, have a lot of contacts here."

"If this is all so hopeless, why don't we walk out the front door then!? Maybe we should rip a few sheets up, tie ourselves up with a big blue bow!"

"That's a thought, you'll look downright adorable, Red, and if it works out you can keep it for the cell block. Personally, I'd rather invent a new option."

"You said there wasn't one."

"I wanted to make sure I had your attention. We kill everybody out there and meet the colonel's contacts with three Hardy corpses, then they might call it even."

"WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY THAT TEN MINUTES AGO!?"

"DON'T YELL AT ME! Because you're a coward, that's why! I had to be sure your puny little coward brain understood you don't have another choice!" The shorter man pummeling at Frank paused, breath heaving from his efforts. "You in?"

Red slumped, then nodded. "This was supposed to be about cash, not murder. Killed two people already, may as well run the table. And I am not yellow just because I don't find the thud of my boot on flesh to be the most melodic sound on earth. How do you even know the kid's the one that killed Manado?"

"You see anyone else here?" He shrugged, remembering the tattered bits of a woman's skirt. "Ask him."

"Hear that Frankie? You get a break from my friend there to play twenty questions with me." He grabbed a handful of brunette hair, wondering if the glazed brown eyes would find him. Eventually they did. "See that's better. Aren't you going to say thank you?"

Frank stared at him, dimly aware it wasn't the same person as before. Dumb and Dumber seemed fairly interchangeable from his perspective.

"Say thank you, Frank."

"N-No."

"So, you do still talk. Unappreciative little cuss, though. He kicks you. I don't. That deserves a thank you."

"No."

"Fine, you wanna play footsies instead, suit yourself. Hope your ribs can take it, kid; you don't look so hot. I can skip twenty questions, but you do have to answer one. You the one that stabbed the colonel?"

Frank swallowed the ever expanding wool in his throat, the abused passage transforming the effort into a fit of anxious coughing. It didn't take much imagination to guess what Rao might do to someone who stabbed his mentor.

"Did.. you.. kill.. him!?"

"Yes."

"All I needed to know."

"Red, come look at this, quick! They're doing something out there!"

The lanky man released his hold on Frank, running to the front window to peer over the mattress barricade. "Damn. Twice as many of them now. Maybe more. You still want to try shooting our way out?"

"You got a better idea!?"

"Hey, you're always telling me that you're the brains of the outfit. Here's your big chance to prove it. You come up with something!"

"Ok, ok! Let me think! We need to see how they'll set themselves up. Sooner or later, they'll have to try to bust in here, and as long as we're ready when that happens, we might actually pull this off. You guard the other window."

#####

 _Oh my God..._

Joe tightened his grip on the window sill, cataloguing the chaos within. The interior might once have been attractive in a rustic way, but now his vision had to repeatedly return to the intact walls to convince himself this wasn't a bombing site. Mattresses barricaded the anterior windows, an armed man slouched behind each one, their attention radiating outwards. A chaotic mound of debris littered the left half of the floor behind them, apparently the remnants of busted furniture. A loft overhung the mess, the edge ragged and open to the floor below. The grayish shoulder and arm of a corpse emerged from the splintered pile, the onyx ring instantly recognizable. Clipboard.

His eyes skirted the coiled mass before the hearth, some portion of his mind noting the purpled flesh and blood splattered clothing without conceding that the moaning conglomeration folded in on itself constituted a person. A person as familiar as himself. That realization welled up a profound revulsion, forcing the younger Hardy to his knees in the grass, retching.

 _Come on, climb back up there. Frank's alone. I did this. My fault. My job to fix it._ Joe eased the window open. A single sound would sign his death warrant and likely Frank's as well. The other team had arrived out front, the activity distracting the two men within. This was his best chance to enter the structure. There wasn't anywhere to hide in there, the whole possibility of aiding his brother hinged entirely on the henchmen remaining confident there was no need to pay heed to their rear flank.

 _Tells me they aren't very smart. Whether you hear anything or not, there's always a need to guard your rear flank... Hope that stupidity holds out._

Joe dropped to the floor inside, quickly shuffling to the broken scrap pile and conforming his body tightly against the contour. The stench was starting to impressive. A deep blue blanket stuck partially out of the mess and he scooted beneath it, grateful for the covering of fabric. He was less than five feet from his brother and it felt like a universe. A universe that contracted slightly when he finally spotted the rise and fall of Frank's ribs.

He scratched a fingernail on the floor, the barest feather of a touch, almost inaudible. Too inaudible, perhaps. The heartbeat pounding in his ears overpowered the minute sound, but Joe repeated the pattern against the grain of the wood. The scraping differed very little from the rattle of branches in the breeze or the creak of the floor boards as the men at the windows paced. The only distinguishing characteristic was consistency.

The unnatural monotony eventually produced the desired result. Frank turned his head toward his brother, the blank stare somehow acknowledging his presence.

Joe smiled, heart sinking when the gesture wasn't returned. The gaze that met his was a mixture of pain, fear, and baffled confusion. A horrific wait followed as Joe literally watched his brother think, the brilliant leaps he'd come to take for granted replaced by a grinding, laborious process. After several moments, his sibling's features shifted into something that suggested he'd solved a particularly difficult equation.

Frank twisted his fingers, signing his conclusion across the dirty strip of flooring separating them. "Joe?"

A small nod.

"Help me?"

The nod grew and Joe responded in kind. "Always."

Frank took longer to reply this time, alarming his brother when his eyes fluttered closed before his hand twitched in response. "Two. Wysiwyg."

Joe grimaced, not as fond of computer terminology as his brother and taking a moment to retrieve the reference. Wysiwyg. What you see is what you get. There weren't any men in the cabin he couldn't view from his position. "Good."

"Lamp. Corner. Wait."

The blonde teen frowned. Communicating via finger spelling minimized sound and movement, but Frank's terseness spoke as much to exhaustion as efficiency. His peered into the corner, spotting the antique oil lamp. _What am I supposed to do with that, precisely?_ The banked embers of last night's fire glowed dully in his peripheral vision. _Oh... Oh! Sure hope we're on the same wavelength, Frank. Otherwise it's going to be one heck of a marshmallow roast._

"Got it." Joe inched toward the glass encased source of kerosene, removing the upper globe from the base and utilizing it as a scoop in the ashes. He didn't trust himself not to clang the small shovel on a hook by the hearth. He melted into the shadow where the stone fireplace jutted into the room, methodically removing his shirt and tearing it in two. Ripping it took forever, Joe unwilling to risk the sound required to speed the process. _Whatever you want me to wait for, brother of mine, I hope you wait for me first_.

"W-What you think... you're going to see out there?" Frank gritted his teeth between loudly gasped phrases, the rationale for attracting his tormentors' attention already forgotten. Must have been important. "Thought I w-was the m-main event."

"You miss me that soon, kid? Must have a damn short attention span." The shorter one left his post at the window, returning to the battered teen curled around his own forearm with a chuckle. "You need to be the center of attention? I can help you with that." His boot stomped into Frank's hip.

It took everything Joe had not to scream at the bastard. He had two dozen blue patches to confirm precisely how that felt and nobody got to do that to Frank. Nobody.

Instead, he lit his makeshift fuses, lobbing both glass orbs toward the debris pile. The soaked remnants of his T shirt caught rapidly, igniting the fuel within and shattering the lamp components outward. Joe launched himself out of his protected corner at the same time, the navy blanket in his fists billowing above him as he crash landed beside his sibling. The heavy comforter settled a split second after his less than graceful arrival, providing protection against the flying shards of glass.

Joe felt the nearer of the men go down in the tangle of limbs and blanket, then heard a shriek as the fire caught in earnest and he scrambled away. Kerosene was flammable but not explosive; everyone should have time to escape the structure before it was engulfed. _As long as they don't have time to kill Frank while they're at it..._

Clasping his arms around the most accessible portion of his brother, Joe rolled both of them backward, confident the blaze now separated them from their attackers... and the front door.

"Frank!?" The prior careful silence was now abandoned to shouting to be heard over the rapidly expanding blaze and the first sounds of gunfire from the entryway. "Frank, you ok?!"

The reply was shaky and breathless. "Yeah. T-t-terrific."

Joe was already yanking him upright, weight balanced against the wall. He really didn't care what his brother answered, as long as he did. "Glad to hear it. You're going out the window. Push off my knee."

"You first."

Joe wadded his fist in the waist of Frank's pants, heaving upward. "Sorry, not gonna happen." He didn't have the strength to lift properly, only adrenaline allowing him to propel his sibling at all. As soon as Frank's bare feet cleared the floor, Joe flung him over the six foot sill, grateful the narrow opening wasn't any higher. It took a few undignified yelp accompanied shoves, but finally Frank's legs disappeared from view. Joe rapidly tugged himself over, hitting the ground outside with a thump. Both instinctively scampered away from the building, Joe yanking Frank along, aware that while the flames hadn't reached the posterior walls, they would.

The crackle of the blaze increased, but the brothers noted the gunshots across the meadow fizzled, then ceased. Both remained flat on their back, unable or unwilling to move any further. The harsh wheeze of their own breathing added to the cacophony.

"It's over."

"Y-yeah. Joe?"

"Um-hmm?"

"Thank you." Frank seemed to be struggling for coherence. "W-was gonna c-come rescue you."

"Might have missed the boat on that one, big brother."

"Y-yeah. Thought you'd just light the w-wood... n-not blow up the p-place."

"You needed a distraction. This worked better."

"I w-was the distraction."

"Team effort."

"Yeah, but s-still."

Neither heard their father approach until his face loomed in their field of vision. Fenton's expression was indescribable, ash streaked, terrified, proud, relieved; in fluctuating proportions that collided with one another repeatedly. "Boys?... Frank?... Joe?"

Joe found the source of the welcome voice first. "I'm fine, Dad."

"Not exactly how it looks, Joseph. Frank? Where are you two hurt?" The hesitation shifted that proportion dramatically toward terrified. "Boys? Come on, answer!"

"I'll be ok, really." Joe gathered up all the resolve he could find and sat up. "But I may need to get back to you with that list. Frank needs help."

Fenton let out a long breath, shifting his attention to his elder son. "Med-evac's already coming. Frank? Can you talk to me?"

"W-want to... go h-home..."

"We'll get you there, I promise." Fenton knelt as his son's feet, propping them up on his knees. The bluish, slack face frightened him, and he could feel chilled tremors wracking the bruised frame. "Has he been talking to you, Joe?"

"Yeah, some. He's thinking pretty slow, but he makes sense when he manages to get there."

"Leg looks broken, and his nose probably. Hard to tell about anything else as beaten as he is. Did he complain about anything specific?"

Joe shook his head, recriminations reasserting themselves as he calmed down. "There wasn't time. God, I'm sorry."

"Later, Joe. Let's get both of you out of here right now." The sound of a helicopter overhead reinforced that idea. "This isn't your fault anyway. He'll understand."

Frank's wavering gasp interrupted them. "I'm r-right here."

Even Joe had to release a wry chuckle at that. "I'm not likely to forget that, Frank."

"What am I s-supposed... AHH, God!... ugnnnh... to understand?"

Joe squeezed his brother's hand painfully, then lurched sideways to allow the medics access. "Can it wait one more day? Really need another day before you hate me... and you will. Please don't ask yet? Please?"

There was a desperation in his voice that hadn't been there even facing two well armed assailants and an impromptu inferno. He hadn't been afraid to enter that cabin, unarmed and alone, but the possibility of his brother's rejection petrified him.

Frank clumsily flailed his hand out, catching Joe's once more and waiting until the fearful sapphire eyes met his. The words that followed wedged between grunted pants, but Joe still heard them. "Can wait forever if y-you want... N-nothing could make me hate you... Not ever."

Joe's doubt never wavered and Frank tried again before the basket stretcher lifted him from the ground. A numbness spread out from his center, suddenly driving him very far away his brother, even from himself. A panic to reassure his sibling replaced the strangely ebbing pain, as if the descending fog might not lift again. "Love you, Joe. Besides, n-need someone to blame for those m-molotov cocktails."

Joe smiled, a strained expression that didn't meet his watery eyes. Frank was fading away from him. "Nah, that was all your idea... And I love you, too."

"F-fine, I'll take the blame for those." Frank finally had no choice but release Joe's fingers for good, closing his eyes as his hand slipped to his side. "But whatever you're... t-taking the blame for... don't."

#####

#####

#####

to be continued...


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 31**

"In other international news today, the tiny island nation of Ranei reeled once again as..."

Joe clicked the remote, preferring to hear almost anything over the looped broadcast of the twenty four news channel.

Click. _Boring._

Click. _Too educational_.

Click _. Hmm,_ _didn't know they still made those ginsu things._

Click. "The Mets lost again tonight in a squeaker." _Really? It's called a pitching staff. Might want to get one._

Click. _Too gross._ _Do we need a show on how to eat scorpions on a stick?_

Click. ...For just three easy payments of $19.95. _I can own the world..._

Click. Portuguese Cultural Exploration channel. _Huh._

Click. 'You too can have rock hard abs with the amazing crunch master...' _Uh-uh. No way. Never thinking about sit ups again..._

Click. Empty senate chamber footage. _Phenomenally exciting..._

Click. "I-I-I know what you're gonna say son. When two halves is gone there's nuthin left - and you're right. It's a little ol' worm who wasn't there. Two nuthins is nuthin'. That's mathematics son. You can argue with me but you can't argue with figures. Two half nuthins is a whole nuthin'." _Foghorn Leghorn... signs of intelligent life after all._

A sliver of setting moon glinted through his window, marking the time as somewhere between way past bedtime and who the heck cares. The other bed in the room was empty, as it had been the last three days. Supposedly, first thing this morning, that was going to change. There was a terrifying thought.

The sky morphed from ebony to charcoal to periwinkle, the moon long gone and wisdom of Foghorn replaced by an equally edifying Coyote, genius by trade, before Joe's eyes drifted closed. Even then it was a tentative experiment, true sleep elusive. A soft knock at the door forced them open again, sandpaper lids scouring the bloodshot orbs beneath.

"Yeah? Come in." His voice was still croaked a bit. _Smoke inhalation? One of Nicholas's punches? Rao strangling me? Swallowing half an ocean? Should there really be that many options on how I lost my voice? Couldn't just be a cold, could it? Anybody that's halfway normal knows how they got laryngitis, I bet._

"You awake?" Fenton walked soundlessly over the grey swirled tile, sitting on the end of the hospital bed.

"For a little while now."

"You're going to have to sleep sometime, Joe."

The younger Hardy nodded, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Sometime, I will. How's Frank?"

Fenton sighed, running his fingers through his hair in a gesture that mirrored his other child. "Better, I think. Hospital visiting hours don't start until ten, so I haven't seen him this morning. Last night the leg seemed to be hurting less."

"Visiting hours? Can't one person stay with him anyway?"

"The first twenty-four hours when he was in the ICU, no, but now that he's in step-down, yes, we could. He has to allow it, though, and he won't."

"What? Why?" Joe seemed surprised. He hadn't wanted anyone in his room at night either, but that was to hide insomnia. His parents knew that, but hadn't called him on it. With Frank being more seriously injured, he'd assumed his mother was ensconced there full time.

"According to your brother, he knows we're tired and we should get some sleep at the hotel in a real bed."

Joe smiled softly. "Like hotels have ever possessed a real bed."

"There is that." Fenton leaned a little closer, studying the dark circles below Joe's eyes. Unfortunately they blended into the bruises at his temple, the color nearly a match. "And you need a real bed, too. Actually, I think Frank's having nightmares and doesn't want to talk about it."

The wan smile left. "He'd almost have to be, Dad. In the hospital in Jakarta, before we came home the first time, he was already having some nasty ones. I can't imagine the last week has made things any better."

"No. Maybe he'll talk to you." Worry and fatigue lined the detective's usually youthful face. "At least as of eight o'clock last night, his doctor still planned on transferring him down here this morning."

Joe flinched at the mention of Frank's imminent arrival. He desperately wanted to see him, but the possibility that his brother had forgiven him was unfathomable. Yes, Frank had told him to stop blaming himself. The only explanation for that, though, was obvious. Frank had no idea what Joe was blaming himself for. Once he knew, well, Joe figured he better get used to the idea of spending time alone.

"What's wrong?"

"Umm, in the hospital, ribs hurt, sore everywhere, bullet wounds; take your pick..." Joe rattled the list without much thought, nibbling the edge of his thumb as he stared out the window.

"Sarcasm isn't attractive this early in the day, Joe."

"Sorry, Dad."

"It's fine; that's not what I'm concerned about. I don't think Frank's the only one with something on his mind, either." Fenton's tone softened, hoping to encourage conversation. "There's nothing you can't tell me, Joe, you know that right? What happened? Something's eating at you and I'm not certain it's all about Frank."

 _Why are hospital clocks so loud?_ Joe stalled, wondering exactly what to say. His dad knew everything already, or more accurately he knew as much as Joe did. "It is all about Frank. He's not going to forgive me for telling Nicholas and Rao he was still alive. How could he? How can Mom forgive me, for that matter?"

Fenton frowned in surprise. He hadn't thought Laura would discuss everything that happened in that cabin with Joe. "Your mother told you what Clipboard tried to do?"

"No she didn't, and that's another matter all together. I tricked the information out of the officer taking statements yesterday. He didn't realize no one bothered to tell me."

"Neither one of them blames you, Joe." If he couldn't convince his son of that, his family was in for a very difficult road ahead.

"They should." The barricade seemed to crack a little, Joe unconsciously twisting slightly toward his father. "I was just so bloody scared, Dad. Rao crammed me into this tiny cage after they drugged me, curled me up and shoved my head between my knees to make me fit. I couldn't move, I couldn't think... I panicked and couldn't even breathe... the mud kept creeping higher, the leeches were wriggling in everywhere. They tried to make me eat one..."

Fenton clenched his jaw tight, forcibly not allowing that scene to play in his personal mental theater. Joe needed empathy, not anger.

"I want to blame betraying Frank on what they did to me, but I can't. I've always been awful with small spaces and that box... What if I didn't rat out Frank because of the drugs? What if it was all because of some phobia I should have grown out of years ago? Some stupid fear right up there with three year olds and their nightlights and I let it terrorize me into betraying my own brother? How could I do that, Dad? How?" Joe grabbed a fistful of blanket with both hands, eyes firmly on the floor.

Fenton hesitated, torn between comforting his son and the need to convince him he wasn't a three year old child in anyone's eyes, least of all his father's. He squelched the hug his arms ached to bestow, instead tipping Joe's chin up with a finger. "You had a very good reason to be uncomfortable in small spaces, and now you have another one. That's not childish or weak, it's human. Whether or not that had any bearing on what you said on the island, I don't know, but if it did, then that's still on them. You didn't climb in that box of your own volition. And from the way you've described it, anyone would have been afraid in there, drugged or not. I would have been."

Joe negated that with a shake of his head, unable to envision his father being fearful. "I'm not supposed to be that scared."

"Don't do that to yourself, Joe." Fenton paused a moment retrieving the exact wording of a phrase. "Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear."

"Twain quotes again, huh?" Joe let the ghost of smile chase across his face.

"Seemed to fit. No one would ever fault your courage in all of this, you shouldn't either. Frank won't." He waited, but Joe didn't speak again. "That everything I need to know?"

"Probably." Joe still looked apprehensive. "Rao kept hinting around about Frank's trial. Do you know what he meant?"

"Hinting how?"

"Nothing specific, more insinuation that I didn't know everything that happened that day. That selling Frank back to them was even worse than I imagined."

Fenton paled, hoping Joe didn't notice. Maybe he was having the heart to heart with the wrong child. No, not that, as he clearly needed to reassure Joe, but he'd have to approach Frank again as well. He'd thought the horrid details he had already were more than adequate fodder for his eldest's nightmares; there really didn't need to be anything else. "They were just trying to make you feel worse, Joe. I wouldn't berate yourself for something they quite likely invented out of sheer viciousness."

A weak shrug was the only answer he received.

Fenton stood, his hand briefly on Joe's shoulder. "I'm going to find an unsuspecting breakfast I can capture and smuggle in here. Whatever they tried to feed you yesterday appeared to be designed to keep the place in business."

"I'm not hungry."

"And yet I'm going to bring you breakfast anyway."

Frank arrived three hours later in a creaky wheelchair approximately two centuries older that he was. A nurse half his size helped him into the bed nearest the door, whispering at him in deference to the sleeping youth closer to the window. Fortunately he'd almost conquered the art of balancing on one foot and one crutch, his injured right arm not allowing for a pair. Several minutes passed before he decided to delve in.

"I k-know you aren't asleep, Joe."

"I am."

"Okay." Frank waited again. "You talked in your s-sleep as a kid. Might help if you'd consider t-taking that up again now."

"I'll have to consider it later. I'm sleeping."

"Joe..."

"Fine, I'm awake."

"Imagine that."

"How'd you know I wasn't asleep anyway?"

"When y-you sleep for real, you snore."

"Do not."

"You keep telling y-yourself that. Ask Chet, he roomed with y-you last baseball trip." Frank realized too late he'd said the wrong thing.

"Doubt I'll be asking Chet much of anything."

"Why? D-Dad said he was going to be fine."

"Yeah, he is, thank God. There's just the little matter of his mother throwing me out."

"What!? For what? You brought him h-home."

"Actually, she threw me out of her house before that. For losing Chet in a war zone, bringing you home to die, killing Iola..." Joe's voice broke in direct opposition to his effort at sarcasm. "You know, general menace to society."

"Joe, you didn't... I m-mean none of that is true. She was upset, I'm s-sure she didn't mean ..."

"Felt like she meant it when she hit me."

"H-hit you!?" Frank's composure was fracturing into little pieces. He'd expected Joe to still be edgy from the cabin, and had been determined to keep the conversation casual. No matter how upset he was, it was still the older sibling's job to be the anchor. That had the nice side advantage of avoiding things he'd rather not discuss either. Somehow four minutes from opening his mouth, it had gone completely wrong.

"Chet isn't his m-mother. He won't abandon a f-friendship."

Joe nodded, but didn't look convinced. "Maybe."

Frank readjusted his blanket, fluffed his pillow, fiddled with the bed controls, and surveyed the room for anything that could be converted into a clandestine cast scratcher. He'd hoped Joe would say more, but he was out of useless things to do. "You s-still think I blame you for telling Clipboard I wasn't d-dead, don't you?"

"Yeah." _Not a matter of thinking it... how could you not?_

"Dad told me what happened over there. Joe, I don't blame you. What you said d-drugged out of your head isn't something y-you're accountable for. Honestly, if telling them s-sooner would have saved you from any part of that torture, I wish you'd been l-lucid enough to d-do that."

"If I'd b-been lucid I would have never... Frank, you have to know that! I am so, so sorry. God, you must hate me to think I would have done this if I'd had my head on straight. I'm sorry..." Joe's breath transformed into shallow little darts _. I wouldn't have... I wouldn't... but I did... I told Callie..._

"That's completely n-not what I meant. I'll never h-hate you, little brother, and I n-never want you to allow s-someone to h-hurt you to protect me. I c-couldn't live with that."

"There's nothing anyone could do to me that's worth betraying you."

"You know that t-terrifies me, right? This was n-not your fault."

Joe rolled that around, afraid to believe it but fiercely wanting to. "But I told Callie."

"I k-know. Which is exactly what I asked D-Dad to let me do before the funeral. If y-you were wrong, then we both were."

"You really aren't mad at me?" The question was incredulous.

"I'm really not." Frank shifted, regretting it instantly. Somewhere there was an inch of him that didn't hurt. He just hadn't located it yet. "There's another w-way to look at this, y-you know."

"Such as?"

"Such as t-twice I've gotten myself captured by a murderously insane r-r-revolutionary, and twice my little brother had to c-come bail me out - which he did, even though it nearly got him k-killed both times." Frank stopped for air. "N-Nothing is your fault, Joe, except the fact that you s-still have to share the upstairs bathroom."

"I was closer to having it all to myself than I want to think about. How you looked in that cabin... it may not have been quite the same as under the gallows in Ranei, but it was nearer than I ever want to be again." Joe flicked his eyes over his brother, studying each bruise and scar. "Are you ok? Really?"

"Yeah. I mean I f-feel like I look, and I spotted a mirror on the way down here and d-decided those vampire reflection legends might be onto a good thing, but it's all g-going to get better. I'm s-still spending the whole summer in physical rehab, b-but Dad agreed to do it in Bayport." Frank saw the worry cross his brother's face. He'd had a four hour surgery and an eight unit transfusion the first day here and Joe clearly knew about it. "I'm f-fine. It w-was all blood loss making me so weird in the c-cabin."

"I think the weirdness started way before that. Second, maybe third grade at the latest. That summer you spent building a scale model of the Roman aqueduct system pretty well clinched it."

Frank smiled his way through a soft laugh. "Least now I know y-you believe me. You wouldn't take potshots otherwise. And I g-got a good grade on that, I'll h-have you know."

"Yeah, like that's unusual. Dad said Principal Schell called?"

"Um-hmm. If I t-take my finals next M-Monday, I don't have to m-make up the work in between. He's sending a tutor out to the h-house to do everything verbally so I'll still g-graduate the Saturday after."

"You won't have a chance to study. We aren't flying home until S-Sunday evening."

"I think I'll d-do ok."

"So you basically only study to assimilate better with normal humans."

Frank blushed, an odd looking affair with two blacked eyes and the purple ridge to his nose. "S-something like that. I d-don't do _that_ well at school."

"Sure, whatever you say." Joe fidgeted a little, wondering whether to finish the conversation or not. May as well get it all out there. "Dad thinks you're having nightmares."

"D-Dad also thinks you threw away that picture of Ness in the red bikini you keep under the b-bed."

"Fraaank..."

"F-fine. I'm having a few. Aren't you?"

"Yeah. Rao said something to me on the beach. He, uh, he said to ask you what happened after Clipboard left your trial. Said you had an interesting evening."

All of the progress in escaping the sullen, withdrawn attitude that plagued Frank in the Jakartan hospital wavered, and any big brother buoying his sibling confidence evaporated altogether. "He dragged me out of there to h-hang me, Joe. It wasn't what I'd c-call interesting. Don't ask, ok?"

"He implied there was more to it." Joe wanted to respect his brother's request, but the sudden frantic look in Frank's eyes wouldn't let him.

"White not blue."

"What does that mean?"

Frank took a deep breath, white knuckled fists wadded in his sheets. "I d-don't know..."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes... N-no... D-don't ask me." Frank paled, visibly trembling, the first sheen of sweat across of his forehead.

"Frank, hey," Joe's voice dropped to a much softer level, afraid now of what he'd started. "You need to tell me. What's white?"

"I said d-don't ASK!"

Joe recoiled as if he'd been struck, another question tumbling out before he could stop it. "Why?"

Frank glared at the ceiling long minutes, listening to air wheeze its way in and out of his throat. When he finally answered it wasn't defiant at all. The plaintive query clawed its way out, ragged and fearful. "Because I don't know what happened... I c-can't remember."

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to be continued...


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N:** This is it, last chapter. There are other stories to come, not direct sequels, per se, but reappearances of some of these characters down the road. There are also stories in between that follow the same time line but aren't directly related. I'll try to post a light hearted one of those later tonight as it's a one shot and I, for one, would like to see the boys in lighter circumstances in my HB world for a bit. Cherylann, EvergreenDreamWeaver, Leyapearl, Paulina Ann, BMSH, and everyone else who read and reviewed and messaged along the way, you have my profound thanks.

 **EPILOGUE**

Chet leaned across the warm, reassuring pine of the eighty year old kitchen table, snagging the jam and liberally coating his toast before anyone noticed. He wasn't completely certain that it was on the approved list of things to eat, but he was pretty sure he could consume most of it quicker than his parents could protest.

"You're up early." Mr. Morton smiled, drinking in the sight of his son, sitting at the breakfast table, munching toast and scrambled eggs while reading the paper. It was so absolutely, utterly mundane. Mundane was suddenly a cherished commodity to be cultivated, enthralled by, wallowed in.

"Yeah, guess so." Chet squirmed a little, eager to speak with his father before his mother made it downstairs for the day. After the last few months of his life he was all for affection, but clingy suffocation was another matter all together. Not that he'd hurt her feelings by saying so. She'd spent too long afraid and now needed to literally hold on to her son. He could accept that.

His pondering took a smidge too long, as Clara Morton entered the kitchen. The peach hued terry robe was the same one she'd been wearing when the Hardys stopped by en route to the airport, but that's where the similarity ended. Her red curls were somewhat damp from the shower, but neatly pinned back with carefully arranged tendrils framing the pale ivory skin of her face. Her taste in makeup had always been somewhat minimalistic, but that was already done for the day as well. She looked younger than her fifty two years as she pecked Chet on the cheek. "Good morning, sweety."

"Morning, Mom. I thought I might go out later today." Chet half held his breath, waiting for a reaction.

"Out?" Her tone rather implied he had suggested staging an invasion of Neptune. "How are you planning to get anywhere? Dr. Bates hasn't said you can drive."

Chet's exasperated frown made it clear what he thought of that restriction. "I wasn't going to drive. Biff's picking me up."

"Sounds like you've already decided to go."

"Clara..." Mr. Morton rejoined the discussion, his voice encouraging compromise. "I understand it's hard to let him out of your sight. I feel the same way, and I suspect Chet has some reservations about letting the farm out of his, but we've been praying for months that our lives would go back to normal. Normal includes Chet setting foot out of this house."

"A few hours after dinner, Mom, that's it." He'd expected his first outing to be difficult, for all of them. The first several days home, he'd barely ventured out of his bedroom, and the temptation to return there now burbled up, the familiar denim covered bed a haven of sorts.

His mother nodded, circling the table to sit across from her son and placing a hand she was embarrassed to see shaking over one of his. "Ok, Chet. I wish this was easier, but you can go."

Chet smiled as she pulled him in for a hug. Reasserting his independence could wait a few more hours.

"Where are you going?"

Or maybe it couldn't. Chet scraped the chair away from the table, catching his dad's eye for moral support. "Actually, we're picking up Callie and Vanessa and heading over to the Hardy's house for a couple of hours. They're coming home this evening."

"We talked about this."

Chet nodded, wondering how to proceed. "Yeah, we did, but we didn't agree on it."

"I'm sure Fenton and Laura will have their hands full getting their boys settled. They don't need to entertain guests at the same time." Mrs. Morton tried to shift to a neutral explanation for her reluctance.

"We don't intend to stay long." Chet hesitated, well aware of his mother's disapproval of this particular destination. "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Joe didn't do anything to deserve the way you feel. I know you're angry, and I know the situation after Frank's funeral didn't help matters, but avoiding the Hardys forever is not a reasonable option."

If she'd shouted or railed it would have been so much simpler. Instead Clara tugged him into a tighter hug, voice full of the anxious tears she was trying to conceal. "He's dangerous, Chet. It's not intentional I suppose, but I don't want you around him."

Chet extricated himself as delicately as he could. He really couldn't bear to have either of his parents angry with him right now, but he couldn't understand her focus on Joe. A scapegoat, perhaps, for things that truly didn't have an explanation. "I'm sorry, Mom. I don't want to upset you, but I'm not staying away from Joe, or Frank, either. I'd rather not have to lie about it every time I see them. Please don't make me."

"I can't stop you." She kissed him on top of his head and retreated up the stairs, untouched breakfast on the table.

"Dad..."

"I know, Chet. Give her some time."

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Frank watched the four teenagers tumble from a car that never seemed quite large enough to hold Biff when he was alone, emerging in the cobblestoned driveway on Elm street. The Hardys had only arrived a few minutes before and he was still sitting in the cream chair by the fireplace, trying desperately not to appear uncomfortable. He really needed to lay back down.

Chet and Biff each hefted a bag from the porch, depositing them inside the front entry. The girls hung back, having agreed beforehand to make sure the brothers were ready to see them before barging in.

"Hi guys." The quiet words were so very regular.

Chet made it across the room first, sitting on the hearth. "Hi, Frank."

They stared at each other awhile. Some conversations don't have a starting point.

"You ok?..."

"It's g-good to..."

"Can't believe all of you are finally..."

The simultaneous words brought a smile to all of them.

"I'm going to be fine." Frank shook his head slightly at the drastic change in Chet's appearance, then remembered his own bedraggled state.

"Me too."

"So..."

Biff sat down on the sofa, clearing his throat at what was a slightly awkward pause. "I can carry this stuff upstairs if you'll tell me what goes where."

Frank nodded, but didn't get any further before his parents entered from the guestroom.

"That gets everything set, I think." Laura's warm smile dismissed the fatigue from her face when she spotted the other boys. She hugged them both, then spoke to Biff. "Thank you, but you don't have to bother with those. Most of it probably goes straight to the laundry. I thought Vanessa and Callie were coming?"

"They're outside in the gazebo." Biff pointed vaguely in the direction of the side yard.

Joe emerged from the kitchen, not hiding the eagerness in his voice. "Ness is outside?"

"We don't even rate a hi first?" Chet surveyed his friend, noting the new bandages wrapping his arm. Maybe Joe was dangerous - but only to himself.

"Of course you rate a hi first... Hi." The light words belied a more serious expression. "I wasn't sure you'd be here today, Chet."

"Today and any other day. You should know that."

"Yeah, I should. Sorry."

"Don't be. Now go see Vanessa before she flattens Biff and I for keeping you in here."

Joe was already half out the door, oblivious to the chuckles from the remaining occupants of the room.

"I think Frank's sat up long enough." Fenton hadn't missed the tired look shadowing his eldest's eyes. "The guest bed's turned down and your things are in there. You need help getting up?"

Frank flushed a bit pink. "I want my own r-room, Dad. Please?"

Fenton sighed. This need for familiarity was the whole reason Frank was home at all, inpatient physical rehabilitation plans scrapped in favor of therapists coming to the house until Frank could attend the outpatient program at Bayport General. Therapy would take longer this way, and a few of his son's physicians had been emphatically opposed, but physical recovery wasn't the only issue. "You aren't ready for stairs."

"I know." Frank gingerly propped himself up with his crutch, managing the two footsteps to settle into the new wheelchair delivered to the house this morning. There wasn't a rational explanation he could offer for his opposition to the guestroom. Well, other than his Aunt Gertrude's taste in decorating, which seemed to revolve around peach crocheted doilies. He ducked his head in embarrassment, but sometimes the only way to get what you want is to ask. "Actually, if you're still game to carry s-something up the stairs..."

Biff nodded quickly, lifting his friend with surprising ease. As strong as the blonde teen was, Frank wasn't exactly light.

Ten minutes later, Frank was in his own bed, a stack of books and a pitcher of water on the nightstand. Laura had done what camouflaging she could with an arrangement of blankets, but the bruises on his face were still stark against the pallor of his skin. A faint sheen of sweat dampened his forehead and he was only half successful in hiding the heavy, pain induced gasps that came from being moved.

"You ready to see Callie?"

"Can I h-have a few minutes, first?" Frank waited on enough air for another sentence. "I'd rather she not think I'm d-dying."

"Sure." His parents and Biff returned downstairs, finding Chet and Callie stacking fruit on a small tray.

"You really weren't going to leave him up there with just water, were you?" Chet's smile was the one they all remembered.

#####

Joe was halfway to the gazebo before Vanessa saw him, travelling slower than he wanted to admit. He'd forced himself through the woods the day they found Frank, adrenaline and fear being wonderful but sadly temporary cures for an abused body. Now, however, the pounding he took in the islands made itself known in every bruised muscle and battered joint.

Vanessa rose as soon as she heard his approach, initially bounding down the trio of steps and running his direction, only to be brought up short. The bruises had the yellow brown hue at the edges that proclaimed them more than a week old, but there was no mistaking the swaths of color over his cheek, limbs, and more alarmingly encircling his throat. He definitely favored one leg, and her stomach churned recalling the gunshot wounds encased in the neatly wound bandages. He hadn't mentioned any of it on the phone, and she was thankful Mrs. Hardy had. Still, her voice didn't hide her shock at actually seeing the damage very well. "Joe..."

He closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair as she started to silently shake. "I'm fine, Ness. Shh... We're all going to be fine..."

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Callie sat on the top step, the fruit tray forgotten, expecting a very different reunion. She knew what she'd done, the information dragged from a reluctant Chet. Joe and Vanessa had spoken everyday on the phone, but Frank hadn't asked to talk to her. Not once.

She tapped lightly on the door, half thinking he wouldn't answer.

"Come in."

God, he looked awful. Probably not the best opening remark. She sank onto the edge of the bed, one hand lightly tracing the edge of his jaw. "I'm so sorry."

Frank flinched away from her, unaware of the subtle motion. "Me too, Cal."

Her hands fluttered with the edge of the blanket, unsure where to go. "Vanessa seemed so upset and worried, and before I knew it I was telling her you were ok. I wouldn't have told anyone else, I swear."

He forced himself to hold her hand, torn between kissing away the tear on her face and demanding she leave. "Messaging's a front p-page ad in the paper, Callie, you know that."

"What I did... that's really how they found you?" Her question was small, lost in a series of nervous swallows.

He wanted to lie. She looked so sad. One lie and it would all be gone. He couldn't. "That's how. Once Clipboard saw that, he contacted everyone he knew in the States who could track me."

"I... I don't know what to say... I was devastated after the funeral, so Joe told me. I wanted to do the same for Vanessa..."

Bringing his brother's name into this was a mistake and Frank's face hardened. "What Joe did isn't the s-same."

The reaction surprised her, although perhaps it shouldn't have. "No, I guess not. I'm sorry... ...Frank, I love you... I am so, so sorry..."

"I love you, too, C-Callie." He kissed the hand he was holding, searching her expression. He wasn't even sure what he expected to see.

His exhaustion was painted across his face in pinched brushstrokes and a palette of purple, but there wasn't any resolution in his eyes.

"Can I come back tomorrow?" Callie held her breath.

It would be so much easier to say yes, to surrender to an aching need for comfort and familiarity and _home_ wherever he could find it. "I don't think that's a g-good idea."

"Are you going to be able to forgive me?"

"I d-don't know..." His lashes drifted closed, "I want to, but I don't know..."

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Eighteen years. Three elected terms. Eighteen years of lip service to ridiculous progressive reforms. Reforms to gather foreign aid and support, to educate his populace enough to function in the modern world, to consolidate the modernists under his power and the conservatives under the army's. Neither side aware they shared a common leader. It was all so close to coming to fruition, and now it was ruined.

The outside world wouldn't have been thrilled with a military takeover of Ranei, and less so when the former democratic government revealed itself as a sham, but after a few months the furor and threats would have subsided. Then his island would have truly been his, in more than a deferential title.

The regular army had stunned him. He'd given the order to squash the rebellion, confident this no chance of succeeding. And then it had, the younger officers amazingly committed to the democratic ideals he been certain would fade away under threat from their turncoat superiors. Even so, the situation could have been salvaged. The rebellion could have rebuilt in hiding and returned to Ranei in a few months or a year. Until the outside anti-terrorism community raided that fortress, crushing his hope for resurgence. How could his senior staff have so misjudged the fallout from capturing one boy?

He glared at the reports on his desk, crisp white descriptions of the initial camp raid and the follow up battle and occupation by an international force. Apparently his fortress island was now under the command of someone named Joseph McCullough. Someone he'd need to learn more about. At least his own involvement in the matter remained a secret.

"Sir?" The feminine query behind him distracted him from his internal rambles. "You've seen the reports?"

"Yes, thank you." President Moluki snatched the folders from his desk. "There are still American personnel at the fortress?"

"Yes, sir. They should be replaced by UN advisors within a few days."

"We have spies within that contingent?"

"No sir, not directly, but I'm sure they'll be sharing information that will be available to Mr. Dahl, and in turn, to me."

"No chance of recruiting him to our side, then?"

"No sir. Nicholas Shuman tried the entire time Elias was imprisoned, but he wouldn't turn."

"Mr. Dahl doesn't suspect you though?"

"No sir. Elias is easily distracted."

"I wouldn't have expected that from a trained agent." The Raneian president wouldn't have suspected that the Network existed a few months ago. Amazing how much damage a single traitor with a grudge and good contacts could do. Nicholas Shuman was a tremendous asset to the wrong side, even with the revolution's failure.

"Forgive me, sir, but your methods of distraction might not be the same as mine." She risked a flirty wink.

"My information says you preferred the younger Hardy to your boss."

She smiled, a predatory grin at odds with her pixie beauty-queen looks. "Yes sir. Dahl is work, Joe would have been a pleasure. He was fun to share a cup of coffee with, though. Too bad he wouldn't take me up on anything more."

"You didn't take the shot at him during his escape. Do you have a problem with killing him and his brother?"

"No sir, no problem. An opportunity will present itself sooner or later. I'd advise waiting awhile if you don't want it connected to Ranei."

"Their deaths are purely personal at this point, Ellen. There isn't any rush, as long as it happens. Fenton as well." He gestured at the reports. "It appears the Hardys deduced someone higher up the political chain here led the revolution, but they never suspected me."

"I understand, sir." The attractive brunette left the opulent office, untroubled by the assignment.

The silver haired president selected a smuggled police photograph from the pile, rage building as he stared at it. Colonel Manado sprawled over a wooden floor, the silver hilt of a knife protruding from his impaled throat. He hissed a promise to the empty room, determined to fulfill it if the brazen young woman ultimately did not.

"I was content to let your sons live, Fenton Hardy." His finger tapped the body in the picture. "Until they murdered mine."

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Laura leaned over Fenton, stretching for the nightstand to turn off his lamp. She glanced at the discarded pile of silk nightgown on the floor, crumped beneath equally abandoned gray boxers, then startled slightly when fingers caught in her hair. "I thought you were asleep."

"Not yet." His other hand skimmed her bare shoulder before pulling her down for a kiss, intent on revisiting the activities of an hour ago. "I thought maybe you were."

"No. I was listening to the house." Any voices upstairs were inaudible, but the soft creaks of the floor confirmed her sons were stirring, both in Frank's room from the sound of it. "Our boys are home."

"Yes, they are." He kissed her again. "They're going to be okay, Laura. We all are."

She nodded, snuggling into his chest. "I know. But, hun?"

"Um hmm..." His response was a bit muffled.

"Do you remember those baby gates we had when they were little? The ones that alarmed if you opened them?"

"Ummm hmmm..." The kisses trailed to her neck.

"They're still in the attic. Can you put those back up in front of their bedrooms?" Laura leaned into the kiss, increasingly distracted from her own words.

His laugh huffed gently against her skin as he rolled over, tucking Laura's slim form beneath him. "Absolutely. But tomorrow."

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Frank felt someone in his room, a presence palpable over him. He tensed, then instantly relaxed, the small sounds intimately recognizable.

"Joe?"

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you up."

"That's ok. What time is it? F-feels late."

"Nope, it's only right after ten. You're just tired."

Frank nodded. "That's certainly t-true. You bunking in here?"

Joe finished piling his pillow on the inflated twin bed now pressed against Frank's opposite wall. "I thought it might be better. I can go back to my room, if you want."

"N-No. Thanks." Frank finally got his arm free from the covers. "I was waiting on you anyway."

"How come?"

"Think this is yours." Frank opened his hand, the pewter compass cradled in his palm. "Guess you found m-me this time. Thank you."

Joe picked up the touchstone, thumb rubbing over the warmed metal. It took a long time to loosen his choked throat enough to answer. "You're welcome."

Frank heard his brother climb into the other bed, his silhouette dim in the clouded sliver moonlight. The movement was slower than anything he generally associated with his sibling. "You feel ok? You were on your feet a lot today."

"Sore, nothing more than that." Joe shrugged, aware Frank couldn't see it in the dark.

"Thought you were g-going to be careful in Ranei, little brother."

Joe smiled, hearing the tenuous blending of overt emotion and the safety of teasing humor. Time to tip that scale. "Me? Have you taken a good look at you?"

"Enough of one to v-verify that I don't have any b-bullet holes anywhere." The teasing was more than a hint now.

"You're the one that crashed off a balcony."

"It was a l-loft."

"Well that explains everything."

"I thought s-so. Besides, I never promised to be careful." Frank replayed their conversations since returning from Jakarta. He was almost certain that was true.

"I never thought I needed to ask you!" Joe grinned, the sound evident whether Frank could see it or not.

"Still, I am definitely planning our n-next vacation - somewhere where even you can't get into trouble."

"Like where?"

"I don't know. T-the Library of Congress, maybe, or the bunker under the Greenbrier. Solid stone walls, s-sounds sturdy. Oh, I know. There's a giant armoire and chair somewhere in North C-Carolina, even have socks hanging out so you'll be right at home. There's that giant ball of yarn in the Midwest somewhere... we can go see that..."

"Only you could use the words armoire and vacation at the same time, Frank. Still, we could rent a hot car to go all those places, little fast driving might salvage the whole deal."

"The w-way you drive? No way. F-First stop is Amish country to buy one of their buggies." Frank laughed, a genuine sound rather than a half snorted chuckle, the first time Joe had heard it in a long time.

Joe paused a heartbeat, the image of him holding the reins of a horse drawn carriage wearing a wide brimmed hat floating through his mind. Couldn't hurt to wind Frank up just a little more. He needed it. "Chariot racing! Bring it on!"

 **FINIS**

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Author's notes:

First a profound thank you to Dawn, for beta-ing the first two thirds of this and tweaking the tone of the most difficult chapters to write. The story would be much weaker without that input and I appreciate it more than I can say, more so still a few years down the line now.

Thank you also to Liz, who put up with fifteen different versions of this plot during IM conversations. Guess Clipboard knows about all of those now, too, lol.

As a few other tidbits, Ranei and the side island with the fortress Chet's been constructing are purely imaginary. The state park at Babcock, however, is a perfectly real place, and if you happen to be in West Virginia in the fall, it's lovely. They have a webcam so you can check the leaf color around the grist mill before you go, as the road in really is as twisty as poor Frank thought. Oddly enough, the giant armoire and chair are real too, in High Point and Thomasville, North Carolina respectively. Furniture building is the main industry for both towns.

The odd dialogue attributed to Foghorn Leghorn in chapter 31 is quoted directly from a 1954 cartoon staring the Looney Tunes character of that name. The reference to Coyote is from Looney Tunes as well. He introduced himself to Bugs Bunny that way in one short, "I am Wile E. Coyote, genius by trade."

I've enjoyed writing Coming of Age and Charades, and even without Clipboard some of these characters will be making a reappearance. As for Clippy: "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead, the Wicked Witch is Dead." Ahem, sorry, been waiting to do that.

Thank you,

Laurie


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